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CASSELL'S    NATIONAL     LIBRARY 


THE 

Victories  of  Love, 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 
COVENTKY    PAT  MORE. 


CASSELL     &     COMPANY,     Limited: 

LONDON,    PARIS,    NEW   YORK   &  MELBOURM':. 


After  the  very  cordial  reception  given  to  the 
poems  of  "  The  Angel  in  the  House,"  which  their 
author  generously  made  accessible  to  the  readers 
of  these  little  books,  it  is  evident  that  another 
v^olume  from  the  same  clear  singer  of  the  purity 
of  household  love  requires  no  Introduction. 

I  have  only,  in  the  name  of  the  readers,  to  thank 
Mr.  Coventry  Patmore  for  his  liberality,  and  wish 
him — say,  rather,  assure  him  of — the  best  return 
he  seeks  in  a  wide  influence  for  good. 

H.  M. 


The  Victories  of  Love. 

33oofe  i. 

I. 

FROM  FREDERICK  GRAHAM. 

Mother,  I  smile  at  your  alarms  ! 
I  own,  indeed,  my  Cousin's  charms, 
But,  like  all  nursery  maladies, 
Love  is  not  badly  taken  twice. 
Have  you  forgotten  Charlotte  Hayos., 
My  playmate  in  the  pleasant  days 
At  Knatchley,  and  her  sister,  Amii'. 
The  twins,  so  made  on  the  same  plan. 
That  one  wore  blue,  the  other  white, 
To  mark  them  to  their  father's  sight ; 
And  how,  at  Knatchley  harvesting, 
You  bade  me  kiss  her  in  the  ring. 
Like  Anne  and  all  the  others  ?     You, 
That  never  of  my  sickness  knew. 
Will  laugh,  yet  had  I  the  disease. 
And  gravely,  if  the  signs  are  these  : 


THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

As,  ere  the  Spring  has  any  power, 
The  almond  branch  all  turns  to  flower, 
Though  not  a  leaf  is  out,  so  she 
The  bloom  of  life  provoked  in  me  ; 
And,  hard  till  then  and  selfish,  I 
Was  thenceforth  nought  but  sanctity 
And  service  :  life  was  mere  delight 
In  being  wholly  good  and  right, 
As  she  was  ;  just,  without  a  slur  ; 
Honouring  myself  no  less  than  her ; 
Obeying,  in  the  loneliest  place, 
Ev'n  to  the  slightest  gesture,  grace, 
Assured  that  one  so  fair,  so  true. 
He  only  served  that  was  so  too. 
For  me,  hence  weak  towards  the  weak. 
No  more  the  unnested  blackbird's  shriek 
Startled  the  light-leaved  wood  ;  on  high 
Wander'd  the  gadding  butterfly, 
Unscared  by  my  flung  cap ;  the  bee. 
Rifling  the  hollyhock  in  glee, 
Was  no  more  trapp'd  with  his  own  flower. 
And  for  his  honey  slain.     Her  power. 
From  great  things  even  to  the  grass 
Through  which  the  unfeuced  footways  pass, 
Was  law,  and  that  which  keeps  the  law, 
Cherubic  gaiety  and  awe  ; 
Day  was  her  doing,  and  the  lark 
Had  reason  for  his  song ;  the  dark 


FROM    FREDERICK   GRAHAM. 

In  anagram  innumerous  spelt 
Her  name  with  stars  that  throbb'd  and  felt ; 
'Twas  the  sad  summit  of  delight 
To  wake  and  weep  for  her  at  night ; 
She  turn'd  to  triumph  or  to  shame 
The  strife  of  every  cliildish  game ; 
The  heart  would  come  into  my  throat 
At  rosebuds ;  howsoe'er  remote, 
In  opposition  or  consent, 
Each  thing,  or  person,  or  event, 
Or  seeming  neutral  howsoe'er, 
All,  in  the  live,  electric  air, 
Awoke,  took  aspect,  and  confess'd 
In  her  a  centre  of  unrest, 
Yea,  stocks  and  stones  within  me  bred 
Anxieties  of  joy  and  dread. 
O,  bright  apocalyptic  sky 
O'erarching  childhood  !     Far  and  nigh 
Mystery  and  obscuration  none. 
Yet  nowhere  any  moon  or  sun  ! 
What  reason  for  these  sighs  ?     What  hope, 
Daunting  with  its  audacious  scope 
The  disconcerted  heart,  affects 
These  ceremonies  and  respects  ? 
Why  stratagems  in  everything  ? 
Why,  why  not  kiss  her  in  the  ring  ? 
'Tis  nothing  strange  that  warriors  bold. 
Whose  fierce,  forecasting  eyes  behold 


THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

The  city  they  desire  to  sack, 
Humbly  begin  their  proud  attack 
By  delving  ditches  two  miles  off, 
Aware  how  the  fair  place  would  scoff 
At  hasty  wooing ;  but,  O  child, 
Why  thus  approacli  thy  playmate  mild  ? 

One  morning,  when  it  flusli'd  my  thought 
That,  what  in  me  such  wonder  wrought 
Was  call'd,  in  men  and  women,  love, 
And,  sick  with  vanity  thereof, 
I,  saying  loud,  '  I  love  her,'  told 
My  secret  to  myself,  behold 
A  crisis  in  my  mystery  ! 
For,  suddenly,  I  seem'd  to  be 
Whirl'd   round,    and    bound    with   showers    oj 

threads, 
As  when  the  furious  spider  sheds 
Captivity  upon  the  fly 
To  still  his  buzzing  till  he  die ; 
Only,  with  me,  the  bonds  that  flew. 
Enfolding,  thrill'd  me  through  and  through 
With  bliss  beyond  aught  heaven  can  have, 
xVnd  pride  to  dream  myself  her  slave, 

A  long,  green  slip  of  wilder'd  land. 
With  Knatchley  Wood  on  either  hand, 
Sunder'd  our  home  from  liers.     This  day 
Glad  was  I  as  I  went  her  way. 
I  stretch'd  my  arms  to  tlie  sky,  and  sprang 


FROM    FREDERICK    GRAHAM.  11 

O'er  the  elastic  sod,  aud  sang 

'  I  love  her,  love  her ! '  to  au  air 

Which  with  the  words  came  then  aud  there ; 

And  even  now,  when  I  would  know 

All  was  not  always  dull  aud  low, 

I  mind  me  awhile  of  the  sweet  strain 

Love  taught  me  in  that  lonely  lane. 

Such  glories  fade,  with  no  more  mark 
Than  when  the  sunset  dies  to  dark. 
They  pass,  the  rapture  and  the  grace 
Ineffable,  their  only  trace 
A  heart  which,  having  felt  no  less 
Than  pure  and  perfect  happiness. 
Is  duly  dainty  of  delight ; 
A  patient,  poignant  appetite 
For  pleasures  that  exceed  so  much 
The  poor  things  which  the  world  calls  such. 
That,  when  these  lure  it,  then  you  may 
The  lion  with  a  wisp  of  hay. 

That  Charlotte,  whom  we  scarcely  knew 
From  Anne  but  by  her  ribbons  blue. 
Was  loved,  Anne  less  than  look'd  at,  shows 
That  liking  still  by  favour  goes  ! 
This  Love  is  a  Divinity, 
And  holds  his  high  election  free 
Of  human  merit;  or  let's  say, 
A  child  by  ladies  call'd  to  play, 
But  careless  of  their  becks  and  wiles. 


12  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Till,  seeing  one  who  sits  and  smiles 

Like  any  else,  yet  only  charms. 

He  cries  to  come  into  her  arms. 

Then,  for  my  Cousins,  fear  me  not  ! 

None  ever  loved  because  he  ought. 

Fatal  were  else  this  graceful  house, 

So  full  of  light  from  ladies'  brows. 

There's  Mary ;  Heaven  in  her  appears 

Like  sunshine  through  the  shower's  bright  tears 

Mildred's  of  Earth,  yet  happier  far 

Than  most  men's  thoughts  of  Heaven  are  ; 

But,  for  Honoria,  Heaven  and  Earth 

Seal'd  amity  in  her  sweet  birtli. 

The  noble  Girl !     With  whom  she  talks 

She  knights  first  with  her  smile  ;  she  walks, 

Stands,  dances,  to  such  sweet  effect. 

Alone  she  seems  to  move  erect. 

The  brightest  and  the  cliastest  brow 

Rules  o'er  a  cheek  whicli  seems  to  show 

That  love,  as  a  mere  vague  suspense 

Of  apprehensive  innocence. 

Perturbs  her  heart ;  love  without  aim 

Or  object,  like  the  sunlit  flame 

That  in  the  Yestals'  Temple  glow'd, 

Without  the  image  of  a  god. 

And  this  simplicity  most  pure 

She  sets  off  with  no  less  allure 

Of  culture,  subtly  skill'd  to  raise 


FROM  FREDERICK  GRAHAM.  13 

The  power,  the  pride,  and  mutual  praise 
Of  human  personality 
Above  the  common  sort  so  high, 
It  makes  such  homely  souls  as  mine 
Marvel  how  brightly  life  may  shine. 
How  you  would  love  her  !     Even  in  dress 
She  makes  the  common  mode  express 
New  knowledge  of  what's  fit  so  well 
'Tis  virtue  gaily  visible  ! 
Nay,  but  her  silken  sash  to  me 
Were  more  than  all  morality, 
Had  not  the  old,  sweet,  feverous  ill 
Left  me  the  master  of  my  wiU  I 

So,  Mother,  feel  at  rest,  and  please 
To  send  my  books  on  board.     With  these, 
When  I  go  hence,  all  idle  hours 
Shall  help  my  pleasures  and  my  powers. 
I've  time,  you  know,  to  fill  my  post, 
And  yet  make  up  for  schooling  lost 
Through  young  sea-service.     They  all  speak 
German  with  ease  ;  and  this,  with  Greek, 
(Which  Dr.  Churchill  thought  I  knew,) 
And  history,  which  I  fail'd  in  too, 
Will  stop  a  gap  I  somewhat  dread. 
After  the  happy  life  I've  led 
With  these  my  friends ;  and  sweet  'twill  be 
To  abridge  the  space  from  tliem  to  me. 


14 


II. 

FROM    MRS.  GRAHAM. 

My  Child,  Honoria  Chiircliill  sways 

A  double  power  through  Charlotte  Hayes. 

Ill  minds  to  first-love's  memory  pledged 

The  second  Cupid's  born  full-fledged. 

I  saw,  and  trembled  for  the  day 

When  you  should  see  her  beauty,  gay 

And  pure  as  apple-blooms,  that  show 

Outside  a  blush  and  inside  snow, 

Her  high  and  touching  elegance 

Of  ordered  life  as  free  as  cliance. 

Ah,  haste  from  her  bewitching  side. 

No  friend  for  you,  far  less  a  bride  ! 

But,  warning  from  a  hope  so  wild, 

I  wrong  you.     Yet  this  know,  my  Child  : 

He  that  but  once  too  nearly  hears 

The  music  of  foref ended  spheres. 

Is  thenceforth  lonely,  and  for  ail 

His  days  like  one  who  treads  the  Wall 

Of  China,  and,  on  this  hand,  sees 

Cities  and  their  civilities, 

And  on  the  other,  lions.     Well, 

(Your  rash  reply  I  thus  foretell,) 


FROM   MRS.   GRAHAM.  15 

Good  is  the  knowledge  of  wbat's  fair. 
Though  bought  with  temporal  despair  ! 
Yes,  good  for  one,  but  not  for  two. 
Will  it  content  a  wife  that  you 
Should  pine  for  love,  in  love's  embrace, 
Through  having  known  a  happier  grace  ; 
And  break  with  inward  sighs  your  rest. 
Because,  though  good,  she's  not  the  best  ? 
You  would,  you  think,  be  just  and  kind. 
And  keep  your  counsel !     You  will  find 
You  cannot  such  a  secret  keep ; 
'Twill  out,  like  murder,  in  your  sleep ; 
A  touch  will  tell  it,  though,  for  pride, 
She  may  her  bitter  knowledge  hide  ; 
And,  while  she  accepts  love's  make-believe, 
You'll  twice  despise  what  you'd  deceive. 
I  send  the  books.     Dear  Child,  adieu ! 
TeU  me  of  all  you  are  and  do. 
I  know,  thank  God,  whate'er  it  be, 
'Twill  need  no  veil  'twixt  vou  and  me. 


16 


III. 

FROM   FREDERICK. 

The  multitude  of  voices  blithe 
Of  early  day,  the  hissing  scythe 
Across  the  dew  drawn  and  withdrawn, 
The  noisy  peacock  on  the  lawn, 
These,  and  the  sun's  eye-gladding  gleam, 
This  morning,  chased  the  sweetest  dream 
That  e'er  shed  penitential  grace 
On  life's  forgetful  commonplace  ; 
Yet  'tAvas  no  sweeter  than  the  spell 
To  which  I  woke  to  say  farewell. 

Noon  finds  me  many  a  mile  removed 
From  her  who  must  not  be  beloved ; 
And  us  the  waste  sea  soon  shall  part. 
Heaving  for  aye,  without  a  heart ! 
Mother,  what  need  to  warn  me  so  ? 
I  love  Miss  Churchill?    Ah,  no,  no. 
I  view,  enchanted,  from  afar, 
And  love  her  as  I  love  a  star. 
For,  not  to  speak  of  colder  fear, 
"Which  keeps  my  fancy  calm,  I  hear. 
Under  her  life's  gay  progress  hurl'd. 
The  wheels  of  the  preponderant  world. 


FROM   FREDERICK.  17 

Set  sharp  with  swords  that  fool  to  slay 
Who  blunders  from  a  poor  byway, 
To  covet  beauty  with  a  crown 
Of  earthly  blessing  added  on ; 
And  she's  so  much,  it  seems  to  me, 
Beyond  all  women  womanly, 
I  dread  to  think  how  he  should  fare 
Who  came  so  near  as  to  despair. 


18 


lY. 

FROM   FREDERICK. 

Yonder  the  sombre  vessel  rides 
Where  my  obscure  condition  hides. 
Waves  scud  to  shore  against  the  wind 
That  flings  the  sprinkling  surf  behind ;  ' 
In  port  the  bickering  pennons  show 
Which  way  the  ships  would  gladly  go ; 
Through  Edgecumb  Park  the  rooted  trees 
Are  tossing,  reckless,  in  the  breeze ; 
On  top  of  Edgecumb's  firm-set  tower, 
As  foils,  not  foibles,  of  its  power, 
The  light  vanes  do  themselves  adjust 
To  every  veering  of  the  gust  : 
By  me  alone  may  nought  be  given 
To  guidance  of  the  airs  of  heaven  ? 
In  battle  or  peace,  in  calm  or  storm, 
Should  I  my  daily  task  perform. 
Better  a  thousand  tim^^s  for  love, 
Who  should  my  secret  soul  reprove  ? 

Beholding  one  like  her,  a  man 
Longs  to  lay  down  his  life  !    How  can 
Aught  to  itself  seem  thus  enough, 
When  I  have  so  much  need  thereof  ? 


FROM    FREDERICK.  19 

Blest  in  her  place,  blissful  is  she  ; 

And  I,  departing,  seem  to  be 

Like  the  strange  waif  that  comes  to  run 

A  few  days  flaming  near  the  sun. 

And  carries  back,  through  boundless  night, 

Its  lessening  memory  of  light. 

Oh,  my  dear  Mother,  I  confess 
To  a  deep  grief  of  homelessness, 
Unfelt,  save  once,  before.     'Tis  years 
Since  such  a  shower  of  girlish  tears 
Disgraced  me  !     But  this  wretched  Inn, 
At  Plymouth,  is  so  full  of  din, 
Talkings  and  trampings  to  and  fro. 
And  then  my  ship,  to  which  I  go 
To-night,  is  no  more  home.     I  dread. 
As  strange,  tlie  life  I  long  have  led : 
And  as,  when  first  I  went  to  school. 
And  found  the  horror  of  a  rule 
Which  only  ask'd  to  be  obey'd, 
I  lay  and  wept,  of  dawn  afraid, 
And  thought,  with  bursting  heart,  of  one 
Who,  from  her  little,  wayward  son, 
Required  obedience,  but  above 
Obedience  still  regarded  love, 
So  change  I  that  enchanting  place. 
The  abode  of  innocence  and  grace 
And  gaiety  without  reproof. 
For  the  black  gun-deck's  louring  roof. 


20  THE   VICTORIES   OP   LOVE. 

Blind  and  inevitable  law 
Which  makes  light  duties  burdens,  awe 
Which  is  not  reverence,  laughters  gain'd 
At  cost  of  purities  profaned. 
And  whatsoever  most  may  stir 
Remorseful  passion  towards  her, 
Whom  to  behold  is  to  depart 
From  all  defect  of  life  and  heart. 

But,  Mother,  I  shall  go  on  shore. 
And  see  my  Cousin  yet  once  more  ! 
'Twere  wild  to  hope  for  her,  you  say. 
I've  torn  and  cast  those  words  away. 
Surely  there's  hope  !     For  life  'tis  well 
Love  without  hope's  impossible ; 
So,  if  I  love,  it  is  that  hope 
Is  not  outside  the  outer  scope 
Of  fancy.     Tou  speak  truth  :  this  hour 
I  must  resist,  or  lose  the  power. 
What !  and,  when  some  short  months  are  o'er, 
Be  not  much  other  than  before  ? 
Drop  from  the  bright  and  virtuous  sphere 
In  which  I'm  held  but  while  she's  dear  ? 
For  daily  life's  dull,  senseless  mood. 
Slay  the  fine  nerves  of  gratitude 
And.  sweet  allegiance,  which  I  owe 
Whether  the  debt  be  weal  or  woe  ? 
Nay,  Mother,  I,  forewarn'd,  prefer 
To  want  for  all  in  wanting  her. 


FROM    FREDERICK.  21 

For  all  ?     Love's  best  is  not  bereft 
Ever  from  him  to  whom  is  left 
The  trust  that  God  will  not  deceive 
His  creature,  fashion'd  to  believe 
The  prophecies  of  pure  desire. 
Not  loss,  not  death,  my  love  shall  tire. 
A  mystery  does  my  heart  foretell ; 
Nor  do  I  press  the  oracle 
For  explanations.     Leave  me  alone, 
And  let  in  me  love's  will  be  done. 


22 


FROM    FREDERICK 

Fashion "d  by  Heaven  and  by  art 
So  is  she,  that  slie  makes  the  heart 
Ache  and  o'erflow  with  tears,  that  gracn 
So  lovely  fair  should  have  for  place, 
(Deeming  itself  at  home  the  while, ^ 
The  unworthy  earth !     To  see  her  smile 
Amid  this  waste  of  pain  and  sin, 
As  only  knowing  tho  heaven  within, 
Is  sweet,  and  does  for  pity  stir 
Passion  to  be  her  minister  : 
Wherefore  last  night  I  lay  awake. 
And  said,  '  Ah,  Lord,  for  Thy  love's  sake, 
Give  not  this  darling  child  of  Thine 
To  care  less  reverent  than  mine ! ' 
And,  as  true  faith  was  in  my  word, 
I  trust,  I  trust  that  I  was  heard. 

The  waves,  this  morning,  sped  to  land. 
And  shouted  hoarse  to  touch  the  strand. 
Where  Spring,  that  goes  not  out  to  sea, 
Lay  laughing  in  her  lovely  glee  ; 
And,  so,  my  life  was  sunlit  spray 
And  tumult,  as,  once  more  to-day, 


FROM    FREDERICK.  23 

For  long  farewell  did  I  draw  near 

My  Cousin,  desperately  dear. 

Faint,  fierce,  the  truth  that  hope  was  none 

Gleam'd  like  the  lightning  in  the  sun  ; 

Yet  hope  I  had,  and  joy  thereof. 

The  father  of  love  is  hope,  (though  love 

Lives  orphan'd  on,  when  hope  is  dead,) 

And,  out  of  my  immediate  dread 

And  crisis  of  the  coming  hour, 

Did  hope  itself  draw  suddeu  power. 

So  the  still  brooding  storm,  in  Spring, 

Makes  all  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 

Mother,  your  foresight  did  not  err  : 
I've  lost  the  world,  and  not  won  her. 
And  yet,  ah,  laugh  not,  wlien  you  think 
What  cup  of  life  1  sought  to  drink  ! 
The  bold,  said  I,  have  cliiub'd  to  bliss 
Absurd,  impossible,  as  this, 
With  nought  to  help  them  but  so  great 
A  heart  it  fascinates  their  fate. 
If  ever  Heaven  heard  man's  desire, 
Mine,  being  made  of  altar-fire, 
Must  come  to  pass,  and  it  will  be 
That  she  will  wait,  when  she  shall  see. 
This  evening,  how  I  go  to  get. 
By  means  unknown,  I  know  not  yet 
Quite  what,  but  ground  whereon  to  stand, 
And  plead  more  plainly  for  her  hand ' 


24  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

And  so  I  raved,  aud  cast  in  hope 
A  superstitious  horoscope  ! 
And  still,  though  something  in  her  face 
Portended  '  No  ! '  with  such  a  grace 
It  burthen'd  me  with  thankfulness. 
Nothing  was  credible  but  '  Yes.' 
Therefore,  through  time's  close  pressure  bold, 
I  praised  myself,  and  boastful  told 
My  deeds  at  Acre  ;  strain'd  the  chance 
I  had  of  honour  and  advance 
In  war  to  come  ;  and  would  not  see 
Sad  silence  meant,  '  What's  this  to  me  ?  ' 

When  half  my  precious  hour  was  gone, 
She  rose  to  meet  a  Mr.  Yaughan  ; 
And,  as  the  image  of  the  moon 
Breaks  up,  within  some  still  lagoon 
That  feels  the  soft  wind  suddenly. 
Or  tide  fresh  flowing  from  the  sea. 
And  turns  to  giddy  flames  that  go 
Over  the  water  to  and  fro, 
Thus,  when  he  took  her  hand  to-night. 
Her  lovely  gravity  of  light 
Was  scattered  into  many  smiles 
And  flattering  weakness.     Hope  beguiles 
No  more  my  heart,  dear  Mother.     He, 
By  jealous  looks,  o'erhonour'd  me. 

With  nought  to  do,  and  fondly  fain 
To  hear  her  singing  once  again. 


FROM   FREDERICK.  25 

I  stay'd,  and  turn'd  her  music  o'er ; 
Then  came  she  with  me  to  the  door. 

*  Dearest  Honoria,'  I  said, 

(By  my  despair  familiar  made,) 

*  Heaven  bless  you ! '    Oh,  to  have  back  then 

stepp'd 
And  fallen  upon  her  neck,  and  wept, 
And  said,  '  My  friend,  I  owe  you  all 

*  I  am,  and  have,  and  hope  for.     Call 

*  For  some  poor  service  ;  let  me  prove 

*  To  you,  or  him  here  whom  you  love, 

*  My  ^wij.     Ajo-j  solemn  task, 

*  For  life's  whole  course,  is  all  I  ask ! ' 
Then  she  must  surely  have  wept  too. 
And  said,  '  My  friend,  what  can  you  do  I " 
And  I  should  have  replied,  '  I'll  pray 

'  For  you  and  him  three  times  a -day, 

'  And,  all  day,  morning,  noon,  and  night, 

*  My  life  shall  be  so  high  and  right 

*  Tliat  never  Saint  yet  scaled  the  stairs 

*  Of  heaven  with  more  availing  prayers  ! ' 
But  this  (and,  as  good  G-od  shall  bless 
Somehow  my  end,  I'll  do  no  less,) 

I  had  no  right  to  speak.     Oh,  shame, 
So  rich  a  love,  so  poor  a  claim  ! 

My  Mother,  now  my  only  friend. 
Farewell.     The  school-books  which  you  send 
I  shall  not  want,  and  so  return. 


THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

Give  them  away,  or  sell,  or  buru. 
I'll  write  from  Malta.     Would  I  might 
But  be  your  little  Child  to-night, 
And  feel  your  arms  about  me  fold. 
Against  this  loneliness  and  cold  ! 


27 


VJ. 

FROM    MRS.    GRAHAM. 

The  folly  of  young  girls !     They  dofP 
Their  pride  to  smooth  success,  and  seoif 
At  far  more  noble  fire  and  might 
That  woo  them  from  the  dust  of  fight  ! 

But,  Frederick,  now  the  storm  is  past, 
Your  sky  should  not  remain  o'ercast. 
A  sea-life's  dull,  and,  oh,  beware 
Of  nourishing,  for  zest,  despair. 
My  Child,  remember,  you  have  twice 
Heartily  loved ;  then  why  not  thrice, 
Or  ten  times  ?     But  a  wise  man  shuns 
To  cry  '  All's  over,'  more  than  once. 
I'll  not  say  that  a  young  man's  soul 
Is  scarcely  measure  of  the  whole 
Earthly  and  heavenly  universe, 
To  which  he  inveterately  prefers 
The  one  beloved  woman.     Best 
Speak  to  the  senses'  interest, 
Which  brooks  no  mystery  nor  delay  : 
Frankly  reflect,  my  Son,  and  say, 
"Was  there  no  secret  hour,  of  those 
Pass'd  at  her  side  in  Sarum  Close, 


28  THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

When,  to  your  spirit's  sick  alarm, 
It  seem'd  that  all  her  marvellous  charm 
Was  marvellously  fled  ?     Her  grace 
Of  voice,  adornment,  movement,  face 
Was  what  already  heart  and  eye 
Had  ponder'd  to  satiety ; 
And  so  the  good  of  life  was  o'er, 
Until  some  laugh  not  heard  before, 
Some  novel  fashion  in  her  hair. 
Or  style  of  putting  back  her  chair, 
Restored  the  heavens.     Gather  thence 
The  loss-consoling  inference. 

Yet  blame  not  beauty,  which  beguiles, 
With  lovely  motions  and  sweet  smiles. 
Which  while  they  please  us  pass  away, 
The  spirit  to  lofty  thoughts  that  stay 
And  lift  the  whole  of  after-life, 
Unless  you  take  the  vision  to  wife, 
Which  then  seems  lost,  or  serves  to  shiko 
Desire,  as  when  a  lovely  lake 
Far  off  scarce  fills  the  exulting  eye 
Of  one  athirst,  who  comes  thereby, 
And  inappreciably  sips 
The  deep,  with  disappointed  lips. 
To  fail  is  sorrow,  yet  confess 
That  love  pays  dearly  for  success  ! 
No  blame  to  beauty  !     Let's  complain 
Of  the  heart,  which  can  so  ill  sustain 


FROM   MRS.    GRAHAM. 

Delight.     Our  griefs  declare  our  fall, 
But  how  much  more  our  joys  !     They  pall 
With  plucking,  and  celestial  mirth 
Can  find  no  footing  on  the  earth, 
More  than  the  bird  of  paradise, 
Which  only  lives  the  while  it  flies. 

Think,  also,  how  'twould  suit  your  pride 
To  have  this  woman  for  a  bride. 
Whate'er  her  faults,  she's  one  of  those 
To  whom  the  world's  last  polish  owes 
A  norel  grace,  which  all  who  aspire 
To  courtliest  custom  must  acquire. 
The  world's  the  sphere  she's  made  to  charm, 
Which  you  have  shunn'd  as  if  'twere  harm. 
Oh,  law  perverse,  that  loneliness 
Breeds  love,  society  success  ! 
Though  young,  'twere  now  o'er  late  in  life 
To  train  yourself  for  such  a  wife ; 
So  she  would  suit  herself  to  you, 
As  women,  when  they  marry,  do. 
For,  since  'tis  for  our  dignity 
Our  lords  should  sit  like  lords  on  high, 
We  willingly  deteriorate 
To  a  step  below  our  rulers'  state  ; 
And  'tis  the  commonest  of  things 
To  see  an  angel,  gay  with  wings, 
Lean  weakly  on  a  mortal's  arm  ! 
Honoria  would  put  off  the  charm 


THE    VICTORIE  .    OF   LOVE. 

Of  lofty  grace  that  caught  your  love, 
For  fear  you  should  not  seem  above 
Herself  in  fashion  and  degree, 
As  in  true  merit.     Thus,  you  see, 
'Twere  little  kindness,  wisdom  none, 
To  light  your  cot  with  such  a  sutk 


31 


YII. 

FROM   FREDERICK. 

Write  not,  my  Mother,  her  dear  name 
With  the  least  word  or  hint  of  blame. 
Who  else  shall  discommend  her  choice, 
I  giving  it  my  hearty  voice  ? 
Wed  mo  ?     Ah,  never  near  her  come 
The  knowledge  of  the  narrow  home  I 
Far  fly  from  her  dear  face,  that  shows 
The  sunshine  lovelier  than  the  rose, 
The  sordid  gravity  they  wear 
Who  poverty's  base  burthen  bear  ! 
(And  all  are  poor  who  come  to  miss 
Their  custom,  though  a  crown  be  this.) 
My  hope  was,  that  the  wheels  of  fate, 
For  my  exceeding  need,  might  wait, 
And  she,  unseen  amidst  all  eyes, 
Move  sightless,  till  I  sought  the  prize, 
With  honour,  in  an  equal  field. 
But  then  came  Yauglian,  to  whom  I  yield 
With  grace  as  much  as  any  man. 
In  such  cause,  to  another  can. 
Had  Bhe  been  mine,  it  seems  to  me 
That  I  had  that  integrity 


32  •  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Aud  oulj  joy  in  lier  delight — 

But  each  is  his  owu  favourite 

In  love !     The  thought  to  bring  me  rest 

Is  that  of  us  she  takes  the  best. 

'Twas  l)ut  to  see  liim  to  be  sure 
That  choice  for  her  remain'd  no  more  ! 
His  brow,  so  gaily  clear  of  craft ; 
His  wit,  the  timely  truth  that  laugh'd 
To  find  itself  so  well  express'd  ; 
His  words,  abundant  yet  the  best ; 
His  spirit,  of  such  liandsome  show 
You  mark'd  not  that  his  looks  were  so ; 
His  bearing,  prospects,  birth,  all  these 
Might  well,  with  small  suit,  greatly  please ; 
How  greatly,  when  she  saw  arise 
The  reflex  sweetness  of  her  eyes 
In  his,  and  every  breath  defer 
Humbly  its  bated  life  to  her ; 
Whilst  power  and  kindness  of  command. 
Which  women  can  no  more  withstand 
Than  we  their  grace,  were  still  unquell'd, 
And  force  and  flattery  both  compell'd 
Her  softness  !     Say  I'm  worthy.     I 
Grew,  in  her  presence,  cold  and  shy. 
It  awed  me,  as  an  angel's  might 
In  raiment  of  reproachful  light. 
Her  gay  looks  told  my  sombre  mood 
That  what's  not  happy  is  not  good  ; 


FROM    FREDERICK.  33 

And,  just  because  'twas  life  to  please, 
Death  to  repel  her,  truth  and  ease 
Deserted  me ;  I  strove  to  talk. 
And  stammer'd  foolishness ;  my  walk 
Was  like  a  drunkard's  ;  if  she  took 
My  arm,  it  stiffeu'd,  aclied,  and  shook  : 
A  likely  wooer  !     Blame  her  not ; 
Kor  ever  say,  dear  Mother,  aught 
Against  that  perf  ectness  which  is 
My  strength,  as  once  it  was  my  bliss. 

And  do  not  chafe  at  social  rules. 
Leave  that  to  charlatans  and  fools. 
Clay  grafts  and  clods  conceive  the  rose, 
So  base  still  fathers  best.     Life  owes 
Itself  to  bread ;  enough  thereof 
And  easy  days  condition  love ; 
And,  kindly  train' d,  love's  roses  thrive, 
No  more  pale,  scentless  petals  five. 
Which  moisten  the  considerate  eye 
To  see  what  haste  they  make  to  die. 
But  heavens  of  colour  and  perfume. 
Which,  month  by  month,  renew  the  bloom 
Of  art-bom  graces,  when  the  year 
In  all  the  natural  grove  is  sere. 

Blame  nought  then  !     Bright  let  be  the  air 
About  my  lonely  cloud  of  care. 


B— 122 


34 

VIII. 

FROM    FREDERICK. 

Religion,  duty,  books,  work,  friends, — 
'Tis  good  advice,  but  there  it  ends. 
I'm  sick  for  what  these  have  not  got. 
Send  no  more  books  :  they  help  me  not ; 
I  do  my  work  :  the  void's  there  still 
Which  carefullest  duty  cannot  fill. 
What  though  the  inaugural  hour  of  right 
Comes  ever  with  a  keen  delight  ? 
Little  relieves  the  labour's  heat ; 
Disgust  oft  crowns  it  when  complete ; 
And  life,  in  fact,  is  not  less  dull 
For  being  very  dutiful. 
'  The  stately  homes  of  England,'  lo, 
'  How  beautiful  they  stand  ! '     They  oavb 
How  much  to  nameless  things  like  me 
Their  beauty  of  security  ! 
But  who  can  long  a  low  toil  mend 
By  looking  to  a  lofty  end  ? 
And  let  me,  since  'tis  truth,  confess 
The  void's  not  fill'd  by  godliness. 
God  is  a  tower  without  a  stair. 
And  His  perfection,  love's  despair. 
'Tis  He  shall  judge  me  when  I  die ; 
He  suckles  with  the  hissing  fly 


FROM    FREDERICK.  35 

The  spider ;  gazes  calmly  down. 
"Whilst  rapine  grips  the  helpless  town. 
His  vast  love  holds  all  this  and  more. 
In  consternation  I  adore. 
Nor  can  I  ease  this  aching  gulf 
With  friends,  the  pictures  of  myseJ. 

Then  marvel  not  that  I  recur 
From  each  and  all  of  these  to  her. 
For  more  of  heaven  than  her  have  I 
No  sensitive  capacity. 
Had  I  but  her,  ah,  what  the  gain 
Of  owning  aught  but  that  domain  ! 
Nay,  heaven's  extent,  however  much. 
Cannot  be  more  than  many  such  ; 
And,  she  being  mine,  should  God  to  me 
Say  '  Lo  !  my  Child,  I  give  to  thee 
*  All  heaven  besides,'  what  could  I  then. 
But,  as  a  child,  to  Him  complain 
That  whereas  my  dear  Father  gave 
A  little  space  for  me  to  have 
In  His  great  garden,  now,  o'erblest . 
I've  that,  indeed,  but  all  the  rest, 
Which,  somehow,  makes  it  seem  I've  got 
All  but  my  only  cared-f  or  plot. 
Enough  was  that  for  my  weak  hand 
To  tend,  my  heart  to  understand. 

Oh,  the  sick  faet,  'twixt  her  and  me 
There's  naught,  and  half  a  world  of  sea. 


36 

IX. 

FROM   FREDERICK. 

In  two,  in  less  than  two  hours  more 

I  set  my  foot  on  English  shore, 

Two  years  untrod,  and,  strange  to  tell, 

Nigh  miss'd  through  last  night's  storm !     There 

fell 
A  man  from  the  shrouds,  that  roar'd  to  quench 
Even  the  billows'  blast  and  drench. 
Besides  me  none  was  near  to  mark 
His  loud  cry  in  the  louder  dark, 
Dark,  save  when  lightning  show'd  the  deeps 
Standing  about  in  stony  heaps. 
No  time  for  choice  !     A  rope ;  a  flash 
That  flamed  as  he  rose  ;  a  dizzy  splash ; 
A  strange,  inopportune  delight 
Of  mounting  with  the  billowy  might. 
And  falling,  with  a  thrill  again 
Of  pleasure  shot  from  feet  to  brain  ; 
And  both  paced  deck,  ere  any  knew 
Our  peril.     Round  us  press'd  the  crew» 
With  wonder  in  the  eyes  of  most. 
As  if  the  man  who  had  loved  and  lost 
Honoria  dared  no  mora  than  that ! 
My  days  liave  else  been  stale  and  flat. 


FROM    FREDERICK,  37 

This  life's  at  best,  if  justly  scann'd, 
A  tedious  walk  by  the  other's  strand, 
With,  here  and  there  cast  up,  a  piece 
Of  coral  or  of  ambergris, 
Which,  boasted  of  abroad,  we  ignore 
The  burden  of  the  barren  shore. 
I  seldom  write,  for  'twould  be  still 
Of  how  the  nerves  refuse  to  thrill ; 
How,  throughout  doubly-darken'd  days, 
I  cannot  recollect  her  face ; 
How  to  my  heart  her  name  to  tell 
Is  beating  on  a  broken  bell ; 
And,  to  fill  up  the  abhorrent  gulf, 
Scarce  loving  her,  I  hate  myself. 

Yet,  latterly,  with  strange  delight, 
Rich  tides  have  risen  in  the  night. 
And  sweet  dreams  chased  the  fancies  dense 
Of  waking  life's  dull  somnolence. 
I  see  her  as  I  knew  her,  grace 
Already  glory  in  her  face ; 
I  move  about,  I  cannot  rest, 
For  the  proud  brain  and  joyful  breast 
I  have  of  her.     Or  else  I  float. 
The  pilot  of  an  idle  boat, 
Alone,  alone  with  sky  and  sea. 
And  her,  the  third  simplicity. 
Or  Mildred,  to  some  question,  cries, 
(Her  merry  meaning  in  her  eyes.) 


88  THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

'  The  Ball,  oh,  Frederick  will  ^o  ; 
'  Honoria  will  be  there  ! '  and,  lo. 
As  moisture  sweet  my  seeing  blurs 
To  hear  my  name  so  link'd  with  hers, 
A  mirror  joins,  by  guilty  chance, 
Either's  averted,  watchful  glance  ! 
Or  with  me,  in  the  Ball- Room's  blaze, 
Her  brilliant  mildness  threads  the  maze ; 
Our  thoughts  are  lovely,  and  each  word 
Is  music  in  the  music  heard, 
And  all  things  seem  but  parts  to  be 
Of  one  persistent  harmony, 
By  which  I'm  made  divinely  bold  ; 
The  secret,  which  she  knows,  is  told  ; 
And,  laughing  with  a  lofty  bliss 
Of  innocent  accord,  we  kiss  : 
About  her  neck  my  pleasure  weeps ; 
Against  my  lip  the  silk  vein  leaps  ; 
Then  says  an  Angel,  '  Day  or  night, 
'  If  yours  you  seek,  not  her  delight, 

•  Although  by  some  strange  witchery 
'  It  seems  you  kiss  her,  'tis  not  she  ; 

'  But,  whilst  you  languish  at  the  side 
'  Of  a  fair-foul  phantasmal  bride, 
'  Surely  a  dragon  and  strong  tower 

*  Guard  the  true  lady  in  her  bower.' 
And  I  say,  '  Dear  my  Lord.  Amen  ! ' 
And  the  true  lady  kiss  again. 


FROM    FREDERICK.  39 

Or  else  some  wasteful  malady 
Devours  her  shape  and  dims  her  eye  : 
No  charms  are  left,  where  all  were  rife. 
Except  her  voice,  which  is  her  life. 
Wherewith  she,  for  her  foolish  fear, 
Says  trembling,  '  Do  you  love  me.  Doar  ?  ' 
And  I  reply,  '  Sweetest,  I  vow 
'  I  never  loved  but  half  till  now.' 
She  turns  her  face  to  the  wall  at  this, 
And  says,  *  Go,  Love,  'tis  too  much  bliss.' 
And  then  a  sudden  pulse  is  sent 
About  the  sounding  firmament 
In  smitings  as  of  silver  bars ; 
The  bright  disorder  of  the  stars 
Is  solved  by  music  ;  far  and  near, 
Through  infinite  distinctions  clear. 
Their  twofold  voices'  deeper  tone 
Utters  the  Name  which  all  things  own. 
And  each  ecstatic  treble  dwells 
On  one  whereof  none  other  tells  ; 
And  we,  sublimed  to  song  and  fire, 
Take  order  in  the  wheeling  quire, 
Till  from  the  throbbing  sphere  I  start, 
Waked  by  the  heaving  of  my  heart. 

Such  dreams  as  these  come  night  by  night, 
Disturbing  day  with  their  delight. 
Portend  they  nothing  ?     Who  can  tell ! 
God  yet  may  do  some  miracle. 


40  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

'Tis  nigh  two  years,  and  she's  not  wed. 
Or  you  would  know !     He  may  be  dead, 
Or  mad,  and  loving  some  one  else, 
And  she,  much  moved  that  nothing  quells 
My  constancy,  or,  simply  wroth 
With  such  a  wretch,  accept  my  troth 
To  sp'te  him  ;  or  her  beauty's  gone. 
(And  that's  my  dream  I)  and  this  man  Yaughan 
Takes  her  release  :  or  tongues  malign, 
Confusing  every  ear  but  mine. 
Have  sinirch'd  her  :  ah,  'twould  move  her,  sure, 
To  find  I  lovod  her  all  the  more  ! 
Nay,  now  I  think,  haply  amiss 
I  read  her  words  and  looks,  and  his. 
That  night  !     Did  not  his  jealousy 
Show — Good  my  God,  and  can  it  be 
That  I,  a  modest  fool,  all  blest, 
Nothing  of  suph  a  heaven  guess'd? 
Oh,  ohauee  too  frail,  yet  frantic  sweet, 
To-morrow  sees  me  at  her  feet ! 
.     Yonder,  at  last,  the  glad  sea  roars 
Along  the  sacred  English  shores  ! 
Tliore  lies  the  lovely  land  I  know, 
"Where  men  and  women  lordliest  grow ; 
There  peep  tlie  roofs  where  more  than  kings 
Postpone  state  cares  to  country  things, 
And  many  a  gay  queen  simply  tends 
Tlie  b;il)os  on  wlioni  the  world  dojxMids  ; 


FROM   FREDERICK.  41 

There  curls  the  wanton  cottage  smoke 

Of  him  that  drives  but  bears  no  yoke  ; 

There  laughs  the  realm  where  low  and  higli 

Are  lieges  to  society, 

And  life  has  all  too  wide  a  scope, 

Too  free  a  prospect  for  its  hope, 

For  any  private  good  or  ill, 

Except  dishonour,  quite  to  fill !  * 

— Mother,  since  this  was  penn'd,  I've  read 
That '  Mr.  Yaughan,  on  Tuesday,  wed 
'  The  beautiful  Miss  Churchill.'     So 
That's  over ;  and  to-morrow  I  go 
To  take  up  my  new  post  on  board 
The  Wolf,  my  peace  at  last  restored ; 
My  lonely  faith,  like  heart-of-oak, 
Shock-season'd.     Grief  is  now  the  cloak 
I  clasp  about  me  to  prevent 
The  deadly  chill  of  a  content 
With  any  near  or  distant  good, 
Except  the  exact  beatitude 
Which  love  has  shown  to  my  desire. 
Talk  not  of  *  other  joys  and  higher,' 
I  hate  and  disavow  all  bliss 
As  none  for  me  which  is  not  this. 
Think  not  I  blasphemously  cope 
With  God's  decrees,  and  cast  off  hope. 
How,  when,  and  where  can  mine  succeed  ? 
♦  Written  in  1856. 


42  THE    VICTORIES   OF    LOVE. 

I'll  trust  He  knows  who  made  my  need. 

Baseness  of  men  !     Pursuit  being  o'er. 
Doubtless  her  Hu.sl)and  feels  no  more 
The  heaven  of  heavens  of  such  a  Bride. 
But,  lounging,  lets  her  please  his  pride 
With  fondness,  guerdons  her  caress 
With  little  names,  and  turns  a  tress 
Round  idle  fingers.     If  'tis  so, 
Why  then  I'm  happier  of  the  two  ! 
Better,  for  lofty  loss,  high  pain, 
Than  low  content  with  lofty  gain. 
Poor,  foolish  Dove,  to  trust  from  me  . 
Her  happiness  and  dignity  ! 


X. 

FROM  FREDERICK. 

I  THOUGHT  the  worst  liad  brought  me  balm 
'Twas  but  the  tempest's  central  calm. 
Yague  sinkings  of  the  heart  aver 
That  dreadful  wrong  is  come  to  her, 
And  o'er  this  dream  I  brood  and  dote, 
And  learn  its  agonies  by  rote. 
As  if  1  loved  it,  early  and  late 
I  make  familiar  with  my  fate. 
And  feed,  with  fascinated  will, 
On  very  dregs  of  finish'd  ill. 
I  think,  she's  near  him  now,  alone, 
With  wardship  and  protection  none  ; 
Alone,  perhaps,  in  the  hindering  stress 
Of  airs  that  clasp  him  with  her  dress. 
They  wander  whispering  by  the  wave ; 
And  haply  now,  in  some  sea-cave, 
Where  the  ribb'd  sand  is  rarely  trod. 
They  laugh,  they  kiss,     Oh,  God !  oh,  God ! 
There  comes  a  smile  acutely  sweet 
Out  of  the  picturing  dark  ;  I  meet 
The  ancient  frankness  of  her  gaze, 
That  soft  and  heart-surprising  blaze 


4-1.  THE   VICTORIES   OF    LOVE. 

Of  great  goodwill  and  innocence. 
And  perfect  joy  proceeding  tlience  ! 
Ah !  made  for  earth's  delight,  yet  such 
The  mid-sea  air's  too  gross  to  touch. 
At  thought  of  whicli,  the  soul  in  me 
Is  as  the  bird  that  bites  a  bee, 
And  darts  abroad  on  frantic  wing, 
Tasting  the  honey  and.  tlie  sting  ; 
And,  moaning  where  all  round  me  sleep 
Amidst  the  moaning  of  the  deej), 
I  start  at  midnight  from  my  bed — 
And  have  no  right  to  strike  him  dead. 

What  world  is  this  that  I  am  in, 
Where  chance  turns  sanctity  to  sin  ! 
'Tis  crime  henceforward  to  desire 
The  only  good ;  the  sacred  fire 
That  sunn'd  the  universe  is  hell ! 
I  liear  a  Yoice  which  argues  well : 
'  The  Heaven  liard  has  scom'd  your  cry ; 

*  Fall  down  and  worship  me,  and  I 

'  Will  give  you  peace  ;  go  and  profane 

*  This  pangful  love,  so  pure,  so  vain. 

*  And  thereby  win  forgetf ulness 

*  And  pardon  of  the  spirit's  excess, 

*  Whicli  soar'd  too  nigh  that  jealous  Heaven 

*  Ever,  save  tlius,  to  be  forgiven, 

*  No  Gospel  lias  come  down  that  cures 

*  Willi  better  gain  a  loss  like  yours. 


FROM    FREDERICK.  45 

*  Be  pious  !     G-ive  the  beggar  polf, 

*  And  love  your  neiglibour  as  yourself  ! 
■  You,  who  yet  love,  though  all  is  o'er, 

*  And  she'll  ne'er  be  your  neighbour  more, 

*  With  soul  which  can  in  pity  smile 

*  That  aught  with  such  a  measure  vile 

'  As  self  should  be  at  all  named  "  love  !  " 

*  Tour  sanctity  the  priests  reprove  ; 

*  Tour  case  of  grief  they  wholly  miss  ; 

*  The  Man  of  Sorrows  names  not  this. 

*  The  years,  they  say,  graft  love  divine 

*  On  the  lopp'd  stock  of  love  like  thine ; 
'  The  wild  tree  dies  not,  but  converts. 

*  So  be  it ;  but  the  lopping  hurts, 

*  The  graft  takes  tardily  !     Men  stanch 

*  Meantime  with  earth  the  bleeding  branch. 
'  There's  nothing  heals  one  woman's  loss, 

'  And  lightens  life's  eternal  cross 

*  With  intermission  of  sound  rest, 

*  Like  lying  in  another's  breast. 

'  The  cure  is,  to  your  thinking,  low  ! 

*  Is  not  life  all,  henceforward,  so  ? ' 

HI  Yoice,  at  least  thou  calm'st  my  mood : 
I'll  sleep  !     But,  as  I  thus  conclude. 
The  intrusions  of  her  grace  dispel 
The  comfortable  glooms  of  hell. 

A  wonder  !     Ere  these  lines  were  dried, 
Vaughan  and  my  Love,  his  three-days'  Bride, 


4(i  THE    VICTORIES   OF   L07E, 

Became  my  guests.     I  look'd,  and,  lo. 

In  beauty  soft  as  is  the  snow 

And  powerful  as  the  avalanche, 

She  lit  the  deck.     The  Heav'n-sent  chance  I 

She  smiled,  surprised.     They  came  to  see 

The  ship,  not  thinking  to  meet  me. 

At  infinite  distance  she's  my  day  : 
What  then  to  him  ?     Howbeit  they  say 
'Tis  not  so  sunny  in  the  sun 
But  men  might  live  cool  lives  thereon  ! 

All's  well ;  for  I  have  seen  arise 
That  reflex  sweetness  of  her  eyes 
In  his,  and  watch'd  his  breath  defer 
Humbly  its  bated  life  to  her, 
His  ic'fe.     My  Love,  she's  safe  in  his 
Devotion !     What  ask'd  I  but  this  ? 

They  bade  adieu ;  I  saw  them  go 
Across  the  sea ;  and  now  I  know 
The  ultimate  hope  I  rested  on, 
The  hope  beyond  the  grave,  is  gone, 
The  hope  that,  in  the  heavens  high, 
At  last  it  should  appear  tliat  I 
Loved  most,  and  so,  by  claim  divine, 
Should  have  her,  in  the  heavens,  for  mine. 
According  to  such  nuptial  sort 
As  may  subsist  in  the  holy  court. 
Where,  if  there  are  all  kinds  of  joys 
To  exhaust  the  multitude  of  choice 


FROM    FREDERICK:.  47 

In  many  mansions,  then  there  are 

Loves  personal  and  particular, 

Conspicuous  in  the  glorious  sky 

Of  universal  charity, 

As  Phosphor  in  the  sunrise.     Now 

I've  seen  them,  I  believe  their  vow 

Immortal ;  and  the  dreadful  thought, 

That  he  less  honour'd  than  he  ought 

Her  sanctity,  is  laid  to  rest. 

And  blessing  them  I  too  am  blest. 

My  goodwill,  as  a  springing  air, 

Unclouds  a  beauty  in  despair ; 

I  stand  beneath  the  sky's  pure  cope 

TJnburthen'd  even  by  a  hope  ; 

And  peace  unspeakable,  a  joy 

Which  hope  would  deaden  and  destroy, 

Like  sunshine  fills  the  airy  gulf 

Left  by  the  vanishing  of  self. 

That  I  have  known  her ;  that  she  moves 

Somewhere  all-graceful ;  that  she  loves, 

And  is  belov'd,  and  that  she's  so 

Most  happy,  and  to  heaven  will  go. 

Where  I  may  meet  with  her,  (yet  this 

I  count  but  accidental  bliss,) 

And  that  the  full,  celestial  weal 

Of  all  shall  sensitively  feel 

The  partnership  and  work  of  eaeh. 

And  thus  my  love  and  labour  reacli 


48  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Her  region,  tliere  the  more  to  bless 
Her  last,  consummate  happiness, 
Is  guerdon  up  to  the  degree 
Of  that  alone  true  loyalty 
Which,  sacrificing,  is  not  nice 
About  the  terms  of  sacrifice, 
But  offers  all,  with  smiles  tliat  say, 
'Tis  little,  but  it  is  for  aye  ! 


49 


XI. 

FROM  MRS.  GRAHAM. 

You  wanted  her,  my  Son,  for  wife. 
With  the  fierce  need  of  life  in  life. 
That  nobler  passion  of  an  hour 
Was  rather  prophecy  than  power ; 
And  nature,  from  such  stress  unbent. 
Recurs  to  deep  discouragement. 
Trust  not  such  peace  yet ;  easy  breath. 
In  hot  diseases,  argues  death ; 
And  tastelessness  within  the  mouth 
Worse  fever  shows  than  heat  or  drouth 
Wherefore  take,  Frederick,  timely  fear 
Against  a  different  danger  near : 
Wed  not  one  woman,  oh,  my  Child, 
Because  another  has  not  smiled ! 
Oft,  with  a  disappointed  man, 
The  first  who  cares  to  win  him  can ; 
For,  after  love's  heroic  strain. 
Which  tired  the  heart  and  brought  no  gain. 
He  feels  consoled,  relieved,  and  eased 
To  meet  with  her  who  can  be  pleased 
To  proffer  kindness,  and  compute 
His  acquiescence  for  pursuit ; 


50  THE    VICTORIES    OF    LOVE. 

Wlio  troubles  not  his  lonely  mood ; 
And  asks  for  love  mere  gratitude. 
Ah,  desperate  foUj  I     Yet,  we  know. 
Who  wed  through  love  wed  mostly  so. 

At  least,  my  Son,  when  wed  you  do. 
See  that  the  woman  eqnals  you, 
Nor  rush,  from  having  loved  too  higli. 
Into  a  worse  humility, 
A  poor  estate's  a  foolish  plea 
For  marrying  to  a  base  degree. 
A  woman  grown  cannot  be  train'd, 
Or,  if  she  could,  no  love  were  gain'd  ; 
For,  never  was  a  man's  heart  caught 
By  graces  he  himself  liad  tauglit. 
And  fancy  not  'tis  in  the  might 
Of  man  to  do  without  delight ; 
For,  sliould  you  in  her  nothing  find 
To  exhilarate  the  higher  mind. 
Tour  soul  would  deaden  useless  wings 
With  wickedness  of  lawful  things. 
And  vampire  pleasure  swift  destroy 
Even  the  memory  of  joy. 
So  let  no  man,  in  desperate  mood. 
Wed  a  dull  girl  because  she's  good. 
All  virtues  in  his  wife  soon  dim, 
Except  the  power  of  pleasing  him, 
Which  may  small  virtue  be,  or  none  ! 

T  know  my  just  and  tender  Son. 


FROM    MRS.    GRAHAM.  51 

To  whom  the  dangerous  grace  is  given 
That  scorns  a  good  which  is  not  heaven  ; 
My  Child,  who  used  to  sit  and  sigh 
Under  the  bright,  ideal  sky, 
And  pass,  to  spare  the  farmer's  wheat, 
The  poppy  and  the  meadow-sweet ! 
He  would  not  let  his  wife's  heart  ache 
For  what  was  mainly  his  mistake ; 
But,  having  err'd  so,  all  his  force 
Would  fix  upon  the  hard,  right  course. 

She's  graceless,  say,  yet  good  and  true. 
And  therefore  inly  fair,  and,  through 
The  veils  which  inward  beauty  fold. 
Faith  can  her  loveliness  behold. 
Ah,  that's  soon  tired ;  faith  falls  away 
Without  the  ceremonial  stay 
Of  outward  loveliness  and  awe. 
The  weightier  matters  of  the  law 
She  pays  :  mere  mint  and  cumin  not ; 
And,  in  the  road  that  she  was  taught. 
She  treads,  and  takes  for  granted  still 
Nature's  immedicable  ill; 
So  never  wears  within  her  eyes 
A  false  report  of  paradise, 
Xor  ever  modulates  her  mirth 
With  vain  compassion  of  the  earth, 
Which  made  a  certain  happier  face 
Affecting,  and  a  gayer  grace 


52  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

With  pcatlios  delicately  edged  ! 

Tet,  though  she  be  not  privileged 

To  unlock  for  you  your  heart's  delight, 

(Her  keys  being  gold,  but  not  the  right,) 

On  lower  levels  she  may  do ! 

Her  joy  is  more  in  loving  you 

Tlian  being  loved,  and  she  commands 

All  tenderness  she  understands. 

It  is  but  when  you  proffer  more 

The  yoke  weighs  heavy  and  chafes  sore. 

It's  weary  work  enforcing  love 

On  one  who  has  enough  thereof, 

And  lionour  on  tlie  lowlihead 

Of  ignorance  !     Besides,  you  dread, 

In  Leah's  arms,  to  meet  the  eyes 

Of  Rachel,  somewhere  in  the  skies, 

And  both  return,  alike  relieved, 

To  life  less  loftily  conceived. 

Alas,  alas  ! 

Tiien  wait  the  mood 
In  will  eh  a  woman  may  be  woo'd 
Whose  thoughts  and  habits  are  too  high 
For  honour  to  be  flattery. 
And  who  would  surely  not  allow 
The  suit  tliat  you  could  proffer  now. 
Her  equal  yoke  would  sit  with  ease ; 
It  might,  with  Avcaring,  eyen  please, 
(Not  witli  a  bettor  word  to  move 


FROM   MRS.    GRAHAM.  53 

The  loyal  wrath  of  present  love)  ; 

She  would  not  mope  when  you  were  gay, 

For  want  of  knowing  aught  to  say  ; 

ISTor  vex  you  with  unhandsome  waste 

Of  thoughts  ill-timed  and  words  ill-placed  ; 

Nor  reckon  small  things  duties  small, 

And  your  fine  sense  fantastical ; 

Nor  would  she  bring  you  up  a  brood 

Of  strangers  bound  to  you  by  blood, 

Boys  of  a  meaner  moral  race, 

Girls  with  their  mother's  evil  grace, 

But  not  her  chance  to  sometimes  find 

Her  critic  past  his  judgment  kind  ; 

Nor,  unaccustom'd  to  respect, 

Which  men,  where  'tis  not  claim'd,  neglect, 

Confirm  you  selfish  and  morose, 

And  slowly,  by  contagion,  gross ; 

But,  glad  and  able  to  receive 

The  honour  you  would  long  to  give. 

Would  hasten  on  to  justify 

Expectancy,  however  high, 

Whilst  you  would  happily  incur 

Compulsion  to  keep  up  with  her. 


54 


Xll. 

FROM   FREDERICK. 

Your  letter,  Mother,  bears  the  date 

Of  six  months  back,  and  comes  too  late. 

My  Love,  past  all  conceiving  lost, 

A  change  seem'd  good,  at  any  cost, 

From  lonely,  stupid,  silent  grief, 

Yain,  objectless,  beyond  relief, 

And,  like  a  sea-fog,  settled  dense 

On  fancy,  feeling,  thought,  and  sense. 

T  grew  so  idle,  so  despised 

Myself,  my  powers,  by  Her  unprized, 

Honouring  my  post,  but  nothing  more, 

And  lying,  when  I  lived  on  shore, 

So  late  of  mornings  :  weak  tears  stream'd 

For  such  slight  cause, — if  only  gleam'd, 

Remotely,  beautifully  bright, 

On  clouded  eves  at  sea,  the  liglit 

Of  English  headlands  in  the  sun, — 

That  soon  I  deem'd  'twere  better  done 

To  lay  this  poor,  complaining  wraitli 

Of  unreciprocated  faith : 

And  so,  with  heart  still  bleeding  quick. 

But  strengtheu'd  by  the  comfort  sick 


FEOM    FREDERICK.  55 

Of  knowing  tliat  She  could  not  care, 
I  turn'd  away  from  my  despair, 
And  told  our  chaplain's  daughter,  Jane. — 
A  dear,  good  girl,  who  saw  my  pain. 
And  look'd  as  if  she  pitied  me, — 
How  glad  and  thankful  I  should  be 
If  some  kind  woman,  not  above 
Myself  in  rank,  would  give  her  love 
To  one  that  knew  not  how  to  woo. 
Whereat  she,  without  more  ado, 
Blush'd,  spoke  of  love  return'd,  and  closed 
With  what  I  meant  to  have  proposed. 
And,  trust  me.  Mother,  I  and  Jane, 
We  suit  each  other  well.     My  gain 
Is  very  great  in  this  good  Wife, 
To  whom  I'm  bound,  for  natural  life, 
By  hearty  faith,  yet  crossing  not 
My  faith  towards — I  know  not  what ! 
As  to  the  ether  is  the  air, 
Is  her  good  to  Honoria's  fair ; 
One  place  is  full  of  both,  yet  each 
Lies  quite  beyond  the  other's  reach 
And  recognition. 

If  you  say. 
Am  I  contented  ?     Yea  and  nay  ! 
For  what's  base  but  content  to  grow 
With  less  good  than  the  best  we  know  ? 
But  think  me  not  from  life  withdrawn, 


56  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

By  passion  for  a  hope  that's  gone. 

So  far  as  to  forget  how  much 

A  woman  is,  as  merely  such, 

To  man's  affection.     What  is  best, 

In  each,  belongs  to  all  the  rest ; 

And  though,  in  marriage,  quite  to  kiss 

And  half  to  love  the  custom  is, 

'Tis  such  dishonour,  ruin  bare, 

The  soul's  interior  despair, 

And  life  between  two  troubles  toss'd. 

To  me,  who  think  not  with  tlie  most ; 

Whatever  'twould  have  been,  before 

My  Cousin's  time,  'tis  now  so  sore 

A  treason  to  the  abiding  throne 

Of  tliat  sweet  love  which  I  have  known, 

I  cannot  live  so,  and  I  bend 

My  mind  perforce  to  comprel:end 

That  He  who  gives  command  to  love 

Does  not  require  a  thing  above 

The  strength  He  gives.     The  highest  degrt 

Of  the  hardest  grace,  humility ; 

The  step  t'ward  heaven  the  latest  trod, 

And  that  which  makes  us  most  like  God, 

And  us  much  more  than  God  behoves. 

Is,  to  be  humble  in  our  loves. 

Henceforth  for  ever  therefore  I 

Renounce  all  partiality 

Of  passion.     Subject  to  control 


FROM    FREDERICK.  57 

Of  that  perspective  of  the  soul 
Whicli  God  Himself  pronounces  good, 
Confirming  claims  of  neiglibourliood. 
And  giving  man,  for  earthly  life, 
The  closest  neighbour  in  a  wife, 
I'll  serve  all.     Jane  be  much  more  dear 
Than  all  as  she  is  much  more  near  ! 
I'll  love  her  !     Yea,  and  love's  joy  comes 
Ever  from  self-lovQ's  martyrdoms  ! 
Yet,  not  to  lie  for  God,  'tis  true 
That  'twas  another  joy  I  knew 
When  freighted  was  my  heart  with  fire 
Of  fond,  irrational  desire 
For  fascinating,  female  charms, 
And  hopeless  heaven  in  Her  mild  arms. 
Nor  wrong  I  any,  if  I  profess 
That  care  for  heaven  with  me  were  less 
But  that  I'm  utterly  imbued 
With  faith  of  all  Earth's  hope  renew'd 
In  realms  where  no  short-coming  pains 
Expectance,  and  dear  love  disdains 
Time's  treason,  and  the  gathering  dross, 
And  lasts  for  ever  in  the  gloss 
Of  newness. 

All  the  bright  past  seems. 
Now,  but  a  splendour  in  my  dreams, 
"Which  shows,  albeit  the  dreamer  wakes. 
The  standard  of  right  life.     Life  aches 


58  THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

To  be  therewith  conformed;  but,  oh, 

The  world's  so  stolid,  dark,  and  low  ! 

That  and  the  mortal  element 

Forbid  the  beautiful  intent, 

And,  like  the  unborn  butterfly, 

It  feels  the  wings,  and  wants  the  sky. 

But  perilous  is  the  lofty  mood 
Which  cannot  yoke  with  lowly  good. 
Right  life,  for  me,  is  life  that  wends 
By  lowly  ways  to  lofty  ends. 
I  will  perceive,  at  length,  that  haste 
T'ward  heaven  itself  is  only  waste ; 
And  thus  I  dread  the  impatient  spur 
Of  aught  that  speaks  too  plain  of  Her. 
There's  little  here  that  story  tells  ; 
But  music  talks  of  nothing  else. 
Therefore,  when  music  breathes,  I  say, 
(And  urge  my  task,)  Away,  away ! 
Thou  art  the  voice  of  one  I  knew, 
But  what  tliou  say'st  is  not  yet  true  ; 
Thou  art  the  voice  of  her  I  loved, 
And  I  would  not  be  vainly  moved. 

So  that  which  did  from  death  set  free 
All  things,  now  dons  death's  mockery, 
And  takes  its  place' with  things  that  are 
But  little  noted.     Do  not  mar 
For  me  your  peace  !     My  health  is  high. 
The  proud  possession  of  mine  eye 


FROM    FREDERICK.  59 

Departed,  I  am  much  like  one 

Who  had  by  haughty  custom  grown 

To  think  gilt  rooms,  and  spacious  grounds, 

Horses,  and  carriages,  and  hounds. 

Fine  linen,  and  an  eider  bed 

As  much  his  need  as  daily  bread, 

And  honour  of  men  as  much  or  more. 

Till,  strange  misfortune  smiting  sore. 

His  pride  all  goes  to  pay  his  debts, 

A  lodging  anywhere  he  gets. 

And  takes  his  family  thereto 

Weeping,  and  other  relics  few, 

Allow'd,  by  them  that  seize  his  pelf, 

As  precious  only  to  himself. 

Yet  the  sun  shines ;  the  country  green 

Has  many  riches,  poorly  seen 

From  blazon'd  coaches  ;  grace  at  meat 

Goes  well  with  thrift  in  what  they  eat ; 

And  there's  amends  for  much  bereft 

In  better  thanks  for  much  that's  left ! 

Jane  is  not  fair,  yet  pleases  well 
The  eye  in  which  no  others  dwell ; 
And  features  somewhat  plainly  set, 
And  homely  manners  leave  her  yet 
The  crowning  boon  and  most  express 
Of  Heaven's  inventive  tenderness, 
A  woman.  But  I  do  her  wrong. 
Letting  the  world's  eyes  guide  my  tongue  ! 


60  THE   VICTOEIES    OF   LOVE 

She  has  a  handsomeness  tliat  pays 

No  homage  to  the  hourly  gaze, 

And  dwells  not  on  the  arch'd  brow's  height 

And  lids  which  softly  lodge  the  light, 

Nor  in  the  pure  field  of  the  cheek 

Flow'rs,  though  the  soul  be  still  to  seek ; 

But  shows  as  fits  that  solemn  place 

Whereof  the  window  is  the  face  : 

Blankness  and  leaden  outlines  mark 

What  time  the  Church  within  is  dark  : 

Yet  view  it  on  a  Festal  night, 

Or  some  occasion  else  for  light, 

And  each  ungainly  line  is  seen 

A  special  character  to  mean 

Of  Saint  or  Prophet,  and  the  whole 

Blank  window  is  a  living  scroll. . 

For  hours,  the  clock  upon  the  shelf. 
Has  all  the  talking  to  itself ; 
But  to  and  fro  her  needle  runs 
Twice,  while  the  clock  is  ticking  once ; 
And,  when  a  wife  is  well  in  reach. 
Not  silence  separates,  but  speech ; 
And  I,  contented,  read,  or  smoke, 
And  idly  think,  or  idly  stroke 
The  winking  cat,  or  watch  the  fire. 
In  social  peace  that  does  not  tire  ; 
Until,  at  easeful  end  of  day, 
She  moves,  and  puts  her  work  away, 


FROM   FREDERICK.  61 

A.nd,  saying  '  How  cold  'tis,'  or  '  How  warm/ 

Or  something  else  as  little  harm, 

Comes,  used  to  finding,  kindly  press'd, 

A  woman's  welcome  to  mj  breast, 

With  all  the  great  advantage  clear 

Of  none  else  having  been  so  near. 

But  sometimes,  (how  shall  I  deny  !) 
There  falls,  Avith  her  thus  fondly  by, 
Dejection,  and  a  chilling  shade. 
Remember'd  pleasures,  as  they  fade. 
Salute  me,  and  colossal  grow. 
Like  foot-prints  in  the  thawing  snow. 
I  feel  oppress'd  beyond  my  force 
With  foolish  envy  and  remorse. 
I  love  this  woman,  but  I  might 
Have  loved  some  else  with  more  delight ; 
And  strange  it  seems  of  God  that  He 
Should  make  a  vain  capacity. 

Such  times  of  ignorant  relapse, 
'Tis  well  she  does  not  talk,  perhaps. 
The  dream,  the  discontent,  the  doubt, 
To  some  injustice  flaming  out, 
Were't  else,  might  leave  us  both  to  moan 
A  kind  tradition  overthrown. 
And  dawning  promise  once  more  dead 
In  the  pernicious  lowlihead 
Of  not  aspiring  to  be  fair. 
And  what  am  I,  that  I  should  dare 


62  THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

Dispute  with  God,  who  moulds  oue  clay 
To  honour  and  shame,  and  wills  to  pay 
With  equal  wages  them  that  delve 
About  His  vines  one  hour  or  twelve  ! 


63 


XIII. 

FROM    LADY    CLITHEROE    TO    MARY 
CHURCHILL. 

I've  dreadful  news,  my  Sister  dear ! 

Frederick  has  married,  as  we  hear, 

Oh,  such  a  girl !     This  fact  we  get 

From  Mr.  Barton,  whom  we  met 

At  Abiiry  once.     He  used  to  know, 

At  Race  and  Hunt,  Lord  Clitheroe, 

And  writes  that  he  *  has  seen  Fred  Graham, 

'  Commander  of  the  Wolf, — the  same 

'  The  Mess  call'd  Joseph,— with  his  Wife 

'  Under  his  arm.'     He  '  lays  his  life, 

'  The  fellow  married  her  for  love, 

'  For  there  was  nothing  else  to  move. 

'  H  is  her  Shibboleth.     'Tis  said 

'  Her  Mother  was  a  Kitchen-Maid.' 

Poor  Fred !     What  will  Honoria  say  ? 
She  thought  so  highly  of  him.     Pray 
Tell  it  her  gently.     I've  no  right, 
I  know  you  hold,  to  trust  my  sight ; 
But  Frederick's  state  could  not  be  hid  ! 
And  Felix,  coming  when  he  did, 
Was  lucky  ;  for  Honoria,  too, 


64  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Was  half  in  love.     How  warm  slie  grew 

On  '  worldliness,'  wlien  once  I  said 

I  fancied  that,  in  ladies,  Fred 

Had  tastes  much  better  than  his  means  ! 

His  hand  was  worthy  of  a  Queen's, 

Said  she,  and  actually  shed  tears 

The  night  he  left  us  for  two  years, 

And  sobb'd,  when  ask'd  the  cause  to  tell, 

That  '  Frederick  look'd  so  miserable.' 

He  did  look  very  dull,  no  doubt, 

But  such  things  girls  don't  cry  about. 

What  weathercocks  men  always  prove 
You're  quite  right  not  to  fall  in  love. 
I  never  did,  and,  truth  to  tell, 
I  don't  think  it  respectable. 
The  man  can't  understand  it,  too. 
He  likes  to  be  in  love  with  you, 
But  scarce  knows  how,  if  you  love  him. 
Poor  fellow.     When  'tis  woman's  whim 
To  serve  her  husband  night  and  day, 
The  kind  soul  lets  her  have  her  way  ! 
So,  if  you  wed,  as  soon  you  should, 
Be  selfish  for  your  husband's  good. 
Happy  the  men  who  relegate 
Their  pleasures,  vanities,  and  state 
To  us.     Their  nature  seems  to  be 
To  enjoy  themselves  by  deputy. 
For,  seeking  their  own  benefit, 


FROM   LADY  CLITHEROE  TO  MARY  CHURCHILL.   65 

Dear,  what  a  mess  tliey  make  of  it ! 

A  man  will  work  his  bones  away, 

If  but  his  wife  will  only  play ; 

He  does  not  mind  how  much  he's  teased, 

So  that  his  plague  looks  always  pleased  ; 

And  never  thanks  her,  while  he  lives, 

For  anything,  but  what  he  gives  ! 

'Tis  hard  to  manage  men,  we  hear  ! 

Believe  me,  nothing's  easier,  Dear. 

The  most  important  step  by  far 

Is  finding  what  their  colours  are. 

The  next  is,  not  to  let  them  know 

The  reason  why  they  love  us  so. 

The  indolent  droop  of  a  blue  shawl. 

Or  gray  silk's  fluctuating  fall, 

Covers  the  multitude  of  sins 

In  me.     Your  husband.  Love,  might  wince 

At  azure,  and  be  wild  at  slate. 

And  yet  do  well  with  chocolate. 

Of  course  you'd  let  him  fancy  he 

Adored  you  for  your  piety. 


12: 


XIV. 

FROM  JANE  TO  HER  MOTHER. 

Dear  Mother,  as  you  write,  I  see 

How  glad  and  thankful  I  should  be 

For  such  a  husband.     Yet  to  tell 

The  truth,  I  am  so  miserable  ! 

How  could  he — I  remember,  though, 

He  never  said  he  loved  me !     No, 

He  is  so  right  tliat  all  seems  wrong 

I've  done  and  tliought  my  whole  life  long  ! 

I'm  grown  so  dull  and  dead  with  fear 

That  Yes  and  No,  when  he  is  near, 

Is  all  I  have  to  say.     He's  quite 

Unlike  what  most  would  call  polite, 

And  yet,  when  first  I  saw  him  come 

To  tea  in  Aunt's  fine  drawing-room, 

He  made  me  feel  so  common  !     Oh, 

How  dreadful  if  he  thinks  me  so ! 

It's  no  use  trying  to  behave 

To  him.     His  eye,  so  kind  and  grave, 

Sees  through  and  through  me  !     Could  not  you, 

Without  his  knowing  that  I  knew. 

Ask  him  to  scold  me  now  and  then  ? 

Mother,  it's  such  a  weary  strain 


FROM   JANE    TO   HER   MOTHER.  67 

The  way  lie  has  of  treating  me 

As  if  'twas  something  fine  to  be 

A  woman ;  and  appearing  not 

To  notice  any  faults  I've  got ! 

I  know  he  knows  I'm  plain,  and  small, 

Stupid  and  ignorant,  and  all 

Awkward  and  mean ;  and,  by  degrees, 

I  see  a  beauty  which  he  sees, 

When  often  he  looks  strange  awhile, 

Then  recollects  me  with  a  smile. 

I  wish  he  had  that  fancied  Wife, 
With  me  for  Maid,  now  !  aU  my  life 
To  dress  her  out  for  him,  and  make 
Her  looks  the  lovelier  for  his  sake ; 
To  have  her  rate  me  till  I  cried ; 
Then  see  her  seated  by  his  side. 
And  driven  off  proudly  to  the  Ball ; 
Then  to  stay  up  for  her,  whilst  all 
The  servants  were  asleep ;  and  hear 
At  dawn  the  carriage  rolling  near. 
And  let  them  in  ;  and  hear  her  laugh. 
And  boast,  he  said  that  none  was  half 
So  beautiful,  and  that  the  Queen, 
Who  danced  with  him  the  first,  had  seen 
And  noticed  her,  and  ask'd  who  was 
That  lady  in  the  golden  gauze  ? 
And  then  to  go  to  bed,  and  lie 
In  a  sort  of  heavenly  jealousy, 


68  THE    VICTORIES   OP   LOVE. 

Until  'twas  broad  day,  and  I  guess'd 
She  slept,  nor  knew  how  she  was  bless'd. 

Pray  burn  this  letter.     I  would  not 
Complain,  but  for  the  fear  I've  got 
Of  going  wild,  as  we  hear  tell 
Of  people  shut  up  in  a  cell, 
With  no  one  there  to  talk  to.     He 
Must  never  know  he  is  loved  by  me 
The  most ;  he'd  think  himself  to  blames ; 
And  I  should  almost  die  for  sliame. 

If  being  good  would  serve  instead 
Of  being  graceful,  ah,  then,  Fred — 
But  I,  myself,  I  never  could 
See  what's  in  women's  being  good  ; 
Eor  aU  their  goodness  is  to  do 
Just  what  their  nature  tells  them  to. 
Now,  when  a  man  would  do  what's  right. 
He  has  to  try  with  all  his  might. 

Though  true  and  kind  in  deed  and  wo  ;*'.], 
Fred's  not  a  vessel  of  the  Lord. 
But  I  have  hopes  of  him ;  for,  oh, 
How  can  we  ever  surely  know 
But  that  the  very  darkest  place 
May  be  the  scene  of  saving  grace  ! 


69 


XV. 

FROM  FREDERICK. 

•  How  did  I  feel  ?  '     The  little  wiglit 

Fill'd  me,  unf atherly,  with  fright  I 

So  grim  it  gazed,  and,  out  of  the  sky. 

There  came,  minute,  remote,  the  cry, 

Piercing,  of  original  pain. 

I  put  the  wonder  back  to  Jane, 

And  her  delight  seem'd  dash'd,  that  I, 

Of  strangers  still  by  nature  shy, 

Was  not  familiar  quite  so  soon 

With  her  small  friend  of  many  a  moon. 

But,  when  the  new-made  Mother  smiled, 

She  seem'd  herself  a  little  child, 

Dwelling  at  large  beyond  the  law 

By  which,  till  then,  I  judged  and  saw  ; 

And  that  fond  glow  which  she  felt  stir 

For  it,  suffused  my  heart  for  her  ; 

To  whom,  from  the  weak  babe,  and  thence 

To  me,  an  influent  innocence, 

Happy,  reparative  of  life, 

Came,  and  she  was  indeed  my  wife, 

As  there,  lovely  with  love  she  lay. 

Brightly  contented  all  the  day 


70  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

To  hug  lier  sleepy  little  boy, 

111  the  reciprocated  joy 

Of  touch,  the  childish  seuse  of  love, 

Ever  inquisitive  to  prove 

Its  strange  possession,  and  to  know 

]  ^  the  eye's  report  be  really  so. 


71 


XYI. 

FROM  JANE  TO  MRS.  GRAHALI. 

Dear  Mother, — sucli  if  you'll  allow, 
In  love,  not  law,  I'll  call  you  now, — • 
I  hope  you're  well.     I  write  to  say 
Frederick  has  got,  besides  his  pay, 
A  good  appointment  in  the  Docks  ; 
Also  to  thank  you  for  the  frocks 
And  shoes  for  Baby.     I,  (D.V.,) 
Shall  soon  be  strong.     Fred  goes  to  sea 
No  more.     I  am  so  glad  ;  because. 
Though  kinder  husband  never  was, 
He  seems  still  kinder  to  become 
The  more  he  stays  with  me  at  home. 
When  we  are  parted,  I  see  plain 
He's  dull  till  he  gets  used  again 
To  marriage.     Do  not  tell  him,  thougli ; 
I  would  not  have  him  know  I  know, 
For  all  the  world. 

I  try  to  mind 
All  your  advice  ;  but  sometimes  find 
I  do  not  well  see  how.     I  thought 
To  take  it  about  dress ;  so  bought 
A  gay  new  bonnet,  gown,  and  shawl ; 


72  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

But  Frederick  was  not  pleased  at  all ; 

For,  tliougli  lie  smiled,  aud  said,  '  How  smart  ! ' 

I  feel,  you  know,  what's  in  his  heart. 

But  I  shall  learn  !     I 'fancied  long 

That  care  in  dress  was  very  wrong, 

Till  Frederick,  in  his  startling  way, 

Wlien  I  began  to  blame,  one  day, 

The  Admiral's  Wife,  because  we  hear 

She  spends  two  hours,  or  something  near, 

In  dressing,  took  her  part,  and  said 

How  all  things  deck  themselves  that  wed  ; 

How  birds  and  plants  grow  fine  to  please 

Each  other  in  their  marriages ; 

And  how  (which  certainly  is  true — 

It  never  struck  me — did  it  you  ?) 

Dress  was,  at  first,  Heaven's  ordinance, 

And  has  much  Scripture  countenance. 

For  Eliezer,  we  are  told, 

Adorn'd  with  jewels  and  with  gold 

Rebecca.     In  the  Psalms,  again, 

How  the  King's  Daughter  dress'd  !    And,  then, 

The  Good  Wife  in  the  Proverbs,  she 

Made  herself  clothes  of  tapestry, 

Purple  and  silk  :  and  there's  much  more 

I  had  not  thought  about  before  ! 

But  Fred's  so  clever  !     Do  you  know, 

Since  Baby  came,  he  loves  me  so  ! 

I'm  really  useful,  now,  to  Fred ; 


FROM   JANE    TO   MRS.   GRAHAM.  73 

And  none  could  do  so  well  instead. 

It's  nice  to  fancy,  if  I  died, 

He'd  miss  me  from  the  Darling's  side  ! 

Also,  there's  something-  now,  you  see, 

On  which  we  talk,  and  quite  agree ; 

On  which,  without  pride  too,  I  can 

Hope  I'm  as  wise  as  any  man. 

I  should  be  happy  now,  if  quite 

Sure  that  in  one  thing' Fred  was  right. 

But,  though  I  trust  his  prayers  are  said. 

Because  he  goes  so  late  to  bed, 

I  doubt  his  Calling.     Glad  to  find 

A  text  adapted  to  his  mind, — 

That  where  St.  Paul,  in  Man  and  Wife, 

Allows  a  little  worldl}^  life, — 

He  smiled,  and  said  that  he  knew  aU 

Such  things  as  that  without  St.  Paul ! 

And  once  he  said,  when  I  with  pain 

Had  got  him  just  to  read  Romaine, 

'  Men's  creeds  should  not  their  hopes  condemn. 

'  Who  wait  for  heaven  to  come  to  them 

'  Are  little  like  to  go  to  heaven, 

'  If  logic's  not  the  devil's  leaven ! 

I  cried  at  such  a  wicked  joke. 

And  he,  surprised,  went  out  to  smoke. 

But  to  judge  him  is  not  for  me, 
Who  myself  sin  so  dreadfully 
As  haK  to  doubt  if  I  sliould  care 


74  THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

To  go  to  heaven,  and  he  not  there. 

He  7nust  be  right ;  and  I  dare  say 

I  shall  soon  understand  his  way. 

To  other  things,  once  strange,  I've  grown 

Aceustom'd,  nay,  to  like.     I  own 

'Twas  long  before  I  got  well  used 

To  sit,  while  Frederick  read  or  mused 

For  hours,  and  scarcely  spoke.     When  he, 

For  all  that,  held  the  door  to  me, 

Pick'd  up  my  handkerchief,  and  rose 

To  set  my  cliair,  with  other  shows 

Of  honour,  such  as  men,  'tis  true. 

To  sweethearts  and  fine  ladies  do. 

It  almost  seem'd  an  unkind  jest ; 

But  now  I  like  tliese  ways  the  best. 

They  somehow  make  me  gentle  and  good ; 

And  I  don't  mind  his  quiet  mood. 

If  Frederick  does  seem  dull  awhile, 

There 's  Baby.     Tou  should  see  him  smile  ! 

I'm  pretty  and  nice  to  him,  sweet  Pet, 

And  he  will  learn  no  better  yet : 

Indeed,  now  little  Johnny  makes 

A  busier  time  of  it,  and  takes 

Our  thoughts  off  one  another  more, 

I'm  hajipy  as  need  be,  I'm  sure ! 


75 


XVII. 

FROM    FELIX    TO    HONORIA. 

Let  me,  Beloved,  while  gratitude 

Is  garrulous  with  coming  good, 

Or  ere  the  tongue  of  happiness 

Be  silenced  by  your  soft  caress, 

Relate  how,  musing  here  of  you, 

The  clouds,  the  intermediate  blue, 

The  air  that  rings  with  larks,  the  grave 

And  distant  rumour  of  the  wave, 

The  solitary  sailing  skiff, 

The  gusty  corn-field  on  the  cliff, 

The  corn-flower  by  the  crumbling  ledge, 

Or,  far-down  at  the  shingle's  edge, 

The  sighing  sea's  recurrent  crest 

Breaking,  resign'd  to  its  unrest. 

All  whisper,  to  my  liome-sick  thought. 

Of  charms  in  you  till  now  uncaught, 

Or  only  caught  as  dreams,  to  die 

Ere  they  were  own'd  by  memory. 

High  and  ingenious  Decree 
Of  joy-devising  Deity  ! 
You  whose  ambition  only  is 
The  assurance  that  you  make  my  bliss. 


76  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

(Hence  my  first  debt  of  love  to  show, 

Thatjyou,  past  showing,  indeed  do  so  !) 

Trust  me  the  world,  the  firmament, 

With  diverse-natured.  worlds  besprent, 

Were  rear'd  in  no  mere  uudivine 

Boast  of  omnipotent  design, 

The  lion  differing  from  the  snake 

But  for  the  trick  of  difference  sake, 

And  comets  darting  to  and  fro 

Because  in  circles  planets  go ; 

But  rather  that  sole  love  might  be 

Ref  resh'd  throughout  eternity 

In  one  sweet  faith,  for  ever  strange, 

Mirror'd  by  circumstantial  change. 

For,  more  and  more,  do  I  perceive 

That  everything  is  relative 

To  you,  and  that  there's  not  a  star, 

Nor  nothing  in't,  so  strange  or  far, 

But,  if  'twere  scanned,  'twould  chiefly  mean 

Somewhat,  till  then,  in  you  unseen, 

Something  to  make  the  bondage  strait 

Of  you  and  me  more  intimate, 

Some  unguess'd  opportunity 

Of  nuptials  in  a  new  degree. 

But,  oh,  with  what  a  novel  force 
Your  best-conn'd  beauties,  by  remorse 
Of  absence,  touch;  and,  in  my  heart, 
How  bleeds  afresh  the  youthful  smart 


FKOM   FELIX   TO   HONORIA. 

Of  passion  fond,  despairing  still 

To  utter  infinite  good- will 

By  worthy  service  !     Yet  I  know 

That  love  is  all  that  love  can  owe, 

And  this  to  offer  is  no  less 

Of  worth,  in  kind  speech  or  caress, 

Than  if  my  life-blood  I  should  give. 

For  good  is  God's  prerogative, 

And  Love's  deed  is  but  to  prepare 

The  flatter'd,  dear  Belov'd  to  dare 

Acceptance  of  His  gifts.     When  first 

On  me  your  happy  beauty  burst, 

Honoria,  verily  it  seem'd^ 

That  naught  beyond  you  could  be  dream  d 

Of  beauty  and  of  lieaveu's  delight. 

Zeal  of  an  unknown  infinite 

Yet  bade  me  ever  wish  you  more 

Beatified  than  e'er  before. 

Angelical  were  your  rei)lies 

To  my  prophetic  flatteries  ; 

And  sweet  was  the  compulsion  strong 

That  drew  me  in  the  course  along 

Of  heaven's  increasing  bright  allure. 

With  provocations  fresh  of  your 

Victorious  capacity. 

Whither  may  love,  so  fledged,  not  fly  ? 

Did  not  mere  Earth  hold  fast  the  string 
Of  this  celestial  soaring  thing, 


78  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

So  measure  and  make  sensitive, 

And  still,  to  the  nerves,  nice  notice  give 

Of  each  minutest  increment 

Of  such  interminable  ascent, 

The  heart  would  lose  all  count,  and  beat 

Unconscious  of  a  height  so  sweet, 

And  the  spirit-pursuing  senses  strain 

Their  steps  on  the  starry  track  in  vain ! 

But,  reading  now  the  note  just  come, 

With  news  of  you,  the  babes,  and  home, 

I  think,  and  say,  '  To-morrow  eve 

'  With  kisses  me  will  she  receive ; ' 

And,  thinking,  for  extreme  delight 

Of  love's  extremes,  I  laugh  outright. 


79 


XYIII. 

FROM    FREDERICK. 

Eight  wedding-days  gone  by,  and  none 
Tet  kept,  to  keep  tliem  all  in  one, 
Jane  and  myself,  with  John  and  Grace 
On  donkeys,  visited  the  place 
I  first  drew  breath  in,  Knatehley  Wood. 
Beai-ing  the  basket,  stuff'd  with  food. 
Milk,  loaves,  hard  eggs,  and  marmalade. 
I  halted  where  the  wandering  glade 
Divides  the  thicket.     There  I  knew, 
It  seem'd,  the  very  drops  of  dew 
Below  the  unalter'd  eglantine. 
Nothing  had  changed  since  I  was  nine  ! 

In  the  green  desert,  down  to  eat 
We  sat,  oui-  rustic  grace  at  meat 
Good  appetite,  through  that  long  climb 
Hungry  two  hours  before  the  time. 
And  there  Jane  took  her  stitching  out, 
And  John  for  birds'-nests  pry'd  about, 
And  Grace  and  Baby,  in  between 
The  warm  blades  of  the  breathing  green, 
Dodged  grasshoppers  ;  and  I  no  less, 
In  conscientious  idleness. 


80  THE    TICTORIES    OF    LOVE, 

Znjov'd  myself,  nnder  the  noon 
Stretoli''d.,  and  the  sounds  aiid  sicrLt^  of  June 
ReoeiTing,  witli  a  drowsv  ohann, 
Tkrough  miiffled  ear  and  folded  arm. 
And  then,  as  if  I  sweetly  dream'd, 
I  half -remember' d  how  it  seem'd 
When  I,  too,  was  a  little  child 
About  the  wild  wood  roving"  wild. 
Pure  breezes  from  the  far-off  heiglit 
Melted  the  blindness  from  my  sight. 
ITntil,  with  rajjture,  grief,  and  awe, 
I  saw  again  as  then  I  saw. 
As  then  I  saw,  I  saw  again 
Th'-  ].arvf-r-wag:jon  in  the  lane, 
AVItj,  ].!;r]i-hi;]ig  tok^-ns  of  its  pride 
Left  in  tJie  elms  on  either  side  ; 
The  dM;~;-s  r-oniiu;,'"  out  at  fliiwn 
In  eon-T(-]]atio)i-,  on  rhe  lawn; 
Tlie  glory  of  the  daffodil ; 
The  three  blaek  windmills  on  the  hill. 
"Whose  magic  arms,  Hung  wildly  by, 
Sent  magic  .shadows  o'er  tlie  i-ye. 
Within  the  leafy  cojjpice,  lo, 
More  wealtli  tlian  miser's  drr-ams  couhl  sliow, 
Tlie  bla/ckbird's  warjn  and  woolly  brood, 
Five  golden  beaks  agajje  for  food ; 
The  Gipsies,  all  the  summer  seen 
Native  as  poppies  to  the  Green ; 


FROM   FREDERICK.  81 

The  winter,  with,  its  frosts  and  thaws 
Aucl  opulence  of  hips  and  haws  : 
Tlie  lovely  marvel  of  the  snow  ; 
The  Tamar,  with  its  altering  show 
Of  gay  ships  sailing  up  and  down, 
Among  the  fields  and  by  the  Town  ; 
And,  dearer  far  than  anything, 
Came  back  the  songs  you  used  to  sing. 
(Ah,  might  you  sing  such  songs  again, 
And  I,  your  child,  but  hear  as  then, 
With  conscious  profit  of  the  gulf 
Flown  over  from  my  present  self  !) 
And,  as  to  men's  retreating  eyes, 
Beyond  high  moimtains  higher  rise, 
Still  farther  back  there  shone  to  me 
The  dazzling  dusk  of  infancy. 
Thither  I  look'd,  as,  sick  of  night, 
The  Alpine  shepherd  looks  to  the  height, 
And  does  not  see  the  day,  'tis  true, 
But  sees  the  rosy  tops  that  do. 

Meantime  Jane  stitch' d,  and  f  aun'd  the  flies 
From  my  repose,  with  hush'd  replies 
To  Grace,  and  smiles  when  Baby  fell. 
Her  countenance  love  visible 
Appear'd,  love  audible  her  voice. 
Why  in  the  past  alone  rejoice, 
Whilst  here  was  wealth  before  me  cast 
Which,!  could  feel,  if  'twere  but  past 


82  THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

"Were  then  most  precious  ?     Question  vain, 

When  jisk'tl  again  and  yet  again, 

Year  after  year ;  yet  now,  for  no 

Cause,  but  that  heaven's  bright  winds  will  blow 

Not  at  our  pray'r  but  as  they  list. 

It  brouglit  that  distant,  golden  mist 

To  grace  the  hour,  firing  the  deep 

Of  spirit  and  the  drowsy  keep 

Of  joy,  till,  spreading  uucontain'd, 

The  lioly  power  of  seeing  gain'd 

Tlie  outward  eye,  this  owning  even 

That  where  there's  love  and  truth  there's  heaven. 

Debtor  to  few,  forgotten  hours 
Am  I,  tliat  truths  for  me  are  powers. 
All,  happy  hours,  'tis  something  yet 
Not  to  forget  that  I  forget ! 

And  now  a  cloud,  bright,  huge  and  calm. 
Rose,  doubtful  if  for  bale  or  balm ; 
O'ertoppliug  towers  and  bulwarks  bright 
Appear'd,  at  beck  of  viewless  might. 
Along  a  rifted  mountain  range. 
Untraceable  and  swift  in  change, 
Those  glittering  peaks,  disrupted,  spread 
To  solemn  bulks,  seen  overhead ; 
The  sunshine  queneh'd,  from  one  dark  form 
Fumed  the  appalling  light  of  storm. 
Straiglit  to  the  zenith,  black  with  bale, 
Tlie  Gipsies'  smoke  rose  deadly  pale ; 


FROM   FREDERICK.  83 

And  one  wide  night  of  liopeless  line 
Hid  from  the  heart  the  recent  bhie. 
And  soon,  with  thunder  crackling  loud, 
A  flash  reveal'd  the  formless  cloud  : 
Lone  sailing  rack,  far  wavering  rim, 
And  billowy  tracts  of  stormland  dim. 

We  stood,  safe  group'd  beneath  a  shed. 
Grace  hid  behind  Jane's  gown  for  dread, 
"Who  told  her,  fondling  with  her  hair, 
'  The  naughty  noise  !  but  God  took  care 
Of  all  good  girls.'     John  seem'd  to  me 
Too  much  for  Jane's  theology. 
Who  bade  him  watch  the  tempest.     Now 
A  blast  made  all  the  woodland  bow ; 
Against  the  whirl  of  leaves  and  dust 
Kine  dropp'd  their  heads  ;  the  tortured  gust 
Jagg'd  and  couvuls'd  the  ascending  smoke 
To  mockery  of  the  lightning's  stroke. 
The  blood  prick'd,  and  a  blinding  flash 
And  close  coinstantaneous  crash 
Humbled  the  soul,  and  the  rain  all  round 
Resilient  dimm'd  the  whistling  ground, 
Nor  flagg'd  in  force  from  first  to  last, 
Till,  sudden  as  it  came,  'twas  past, 
Leaving  a  trouble  in  the  copse 
01  brawling  birds  and  tinkling  drops. 

Change  beyond  hope !     Far  tliunder  faint 
Mutter'd  its  vast  and  vain  complaint. 


84  THE   VICTORIES   OP   LOVE. 

And  gaps  aud  fractures,  fringed  with  light. 
Show'd  the  sweet  skies,  with  squadrons  bright 
Of  cloudlets,  glittering  calm  and  fair 
Througli  gulfs  of  calm  and  glittering  air. 

With  this  adventure,  we  return' d. 
Tlie  roads  tlie  feet  no  longer  bum'd. 
A  wholesome  smell  of  rainy  earth 
Refresh 'd  our  spirits,  tired  of  mirth. 
The  donkey-boy  drew  friendly  near 
My  Wife,  and,  toueh'd  l)y  the  kind  cheer 
Her  countenance  show'd,  or  sooth'd  perchance 
By  the  soft  evening's  sad  advance. 
As  we  were,  stroked  the  flanks  and  head 
Of  the  ass,  and,  somewhat  thick-voiced,  said. 
'  To  'ave  to  wop  the  donkeys  so 
'  'Ardens  the  'art,  but  they  won't  go 
'  Without ! '     My  wife,  by  this  impress'd, 
As  men  judge  poets  by  their  best, 
When  now  we  reach'd  the  welcome  door. 
Gave  liim  his  hire,  and  sixpence  more. 


85 


XIX. 
FROM  JANE. 


Dear  Mrs.  Graham,  the  fever's  past, 
And  Fred  is  well.     I,  in  my  last, 
Forgot  to  say  that,  while  'twas  on, 
A  lady,  call'd  Honoria  Yaughan, 
One  of  his  Salisbury  Cousins,  came. 
Had  I,  she  ask'd  me,  heard  her  name  ? 
'Twas  that  Honoria,  no  doubt. 
Whom  he  would  sometimes  talk  about 
And  speak  to,  when  his  nights  were  bad, 
And  so  I  told  her  that  I  had. 

She  look'd  so  beautiful  and  kind  ! 
And  just  the  sort  of  wife  my  mind 
Pictured  for  Fred,  with  many  tears, 
In  those  sad  early  married  years. 

Yisiting,  yesterday,  she  said. 
The  Admiral's  "Wife,  she  learn'd  that  Fred 
"Was  very  ill ;  she  begg'd  to  be. 
If  possible,  of  use  to  me. 
What  could  she  do  ?     Last  year,  his  Aunt 
Died,  leaving  her,  who  had  no  want. 
Her  fortune.     HaK  was  his,  she  thought ; 
But  he,  she  knew,  would  not  be  brought 


80  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

To  take  liis  rights  at  second  hand. 

Yet  something  might,  she  hoped,  be  plannM. 

What  did  I  think  of  putting  John 

To  school  and  college  ?     Mr.  Yaughan, 

Wlien  John  was  old  enough,  could  give 

Preferment  to  her  relative  ; 

And  she  should  be  so  pleased. — I  said 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  dearest  Fred 

Would  be  most  thankful.     Would  we  come. 

And  make  ourselves,  she  ask'd,  at  home, 

Next  month,  at  High-Hurst  ?     Change  of  air 

Both  he  and  I  should  need,  and  there 

At  leisure  we  could  talk,  and  then 

Fix  plans,  as  John  was  nearly  ten. 

It  seemed  so  rude  to  think  and  doubt, 
So  I  said,  Yes.     In  going  out. 
She  said,  '  How  strange  of  Frederick,  Dear,' 
(I  wish  lie  liad  been  there  to  hear,) 
'  To  send  no  cards,  or  tell  me  what 
'  A  nice  new  Cousin  I  had  got ! ' 
Was  not  tliat  kind  ? 

When  Fred  grew  strong, 
I  liad,  I  found,  done  very  wrong. 
Anger  was  in  his  voice  and  eye. 
AVith  people  born  and  bred  so  high 
As  Fred  and  Mrs.  Yaughan  and  you. 
It's  hard  to  guess  what's  right  to  do  ; 
And  lie  won't  teach  me  ! 


FKOM   JANE.  87' 

Dear  Fred  wrote, 
Directly,  sucli  a  lovely  note, 
Wliicli,  though  it  imdid  aU  I  had  done, 
Was,  both  to  me  and  Mrs.  Yaughan, 
So  kind !     His  words.  I  can't  say  why, 
Like  soldiers'  music,  made  me  cry. 


Book  H. 


FROM  JANE  TO  HER  MOTHER. 

Thank  Heaven,  tlie  burthens  on  the  heart 

Are  not  half  known  till  they  depart ! 

Although  I  long'd,  for  many  a  year, 

To  love  with  love  that  casts  out  fear, 

My  Frederick's  kindness  f  righten'd  me, 

And  heaven  seem'd  less  far  off  than  he  ; 

And  in  my  fancy  I  would  trace 

A  lady  with  an  angei's  face. 

That  made  devotion  simply  debt. 

Till  sick  with  euA-y  and  regret, 

And  wicked  grief  that  God  should  e'er 

Make  women,  and  not  make  them  fair. 

That  he  might  love  me  more  because 

Another  in  liis  memory  was, 

And  that  my  indigence  might  be 

To  him  what  Baby's  was  to  me, 

The  chief  of  charms,  who  could  have  thought  ? 

But  God's  wise  way  is  to  give  nought 

Till  we  with  asking  it  are  tired ; 

And  when,  indeed,  the  change  desired 


FROM   JANE    TO    HER   MOTHER.  89 

Comes,  lest  we  give  ourselves  the  praise, 

It  comes  by  Providence,  not  Grace  ; 

And  mostly  our  thanks  for  granted  pray'rs 

Are  groans  at  unexpected  cares. 

First  Baby  went  to  heaven,  you  know, 

And,  five  weeks  after,  Grace  went,  too, 

Then  he  became  more  talkative, 

And,  stooping  to  my  heart,  would  give 

Signs  of  his  love,  wliich  pleased  me  more 

Than  all  the  proofs  he  gave  before  ; 

And,  in  that  time  of  our  great  grief, 

We  talk'd  religion  for  relief  ; 

For,  though  we  very  seldom  name 

Religion,  we  now  think  the  same  ! 

Oh,  what  a  bar  is  thus  removed 

To  loving  and  to  being  loved  ! 

For  no  agreement  really  is 

In  anything  when  none's  in  this. 

Why,  Mother,  once,  if  Frederick  press'd 

His  wife  against  his  hearty  breast, 

The  interior  dift'erence  seem'd  to  tear 

My  own,  until  I  could  not  bear 

The  trouble.     'Twas  a  dreadful  strife, 

And  show'd,  indeed,  tliat  faith  is  life. 

He  never  felt  this.     If  he  did, 

I'm  sure  it  could  not  have  been  hid ; 

For  wives,  I  need  not  say  to  you, 

Can  feel  just  what  their  husbands  do. 


90  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Without  a  word  or  look  ;  but  then 
It  is  not  so,  you  know,  with  men. 

From  that  time  many  a  Scripture  text 
Help'd  me,  which  had,  before,  perplex'd. 
Oh,  what  a  wond'rous  word  seem'd  this 
He  is  my  head,  as  Christ  is  his  ! 
None  ever  could  have  dared  to  see 
In  marriage  such  a  dignity 
For  man,  and  for  his  wife,  still  less, 
Such  happy,  happy  lowliness. 
Had  God  himself  not  made  it  plain  ! 
This  revelation  lays  the  rein — 
If  I  may  speak  so — on  the  neck 
Of  a  wife's  love,  takes  thence  the  check 
Of  conscience,  and  forbids  to  doubt 
Its  measure  is  to  be  without 
All  measure,  and  a  fond  excess 
Is  here  her  rule  of  godliness. 

I  took  him  not  for  love  but  fright ; 
He  did  but  ask  a  dreadful  right. 
In  this  was  love,  that  he  loved  me 
Tlie  hrst,  wlio  Avas  mere  poverty. 
All  that  I  know  of  love  he  taught ; 
And  love  is  all  I  know  of  aught. 
My  merit  is  so  small  by  his, 
Tliat  my  demerit  is  my  bliss. 
My  life  is  liid  witli  liim  in  Clirist, 
Never  thenecfrom  to  be  enticed , 


PEOM   JANE    TO   HER    MOTHER.  91 

And  in  liis  strength  have  I  such  rest 
As  when  the  baby  on  my  breast 
Finds  what  it  knows  not  how  to  seek, 
And,  very  happy,  very  weak, 
Lies,  only  knowing  all  is  well, 
Pillow'd  on  kindness  palpable. 


92 


II. 


FROM  LADY  CLITHEROE  TO  MARY 
CHURCHILL. 

Dear  Saiut,  I'm  still  at  High-Hurst  Park. 

The  house  is  fill'd  with  folks  of  mark. 

Honoria  suits  a  good  estate 

Much  better  than  I  hoped.     How  fate 

Loads  her  mth  happiness  and  prjde  ! 

And  such  a  loving  lord,  beside  ! 

But  between  us,  Sweet,  everything 

Has  limits,  and  to  build  a  wing 

To  this  old  house,  when  Courtholm  stands 

Empty  upon  his  Berkshire  lands, 

And  all  that  Honor  might  be  near 

Papa,  was  buying  love  too  dear. 

With  twenty  others,  there  are  two 
Guests  here,  whose  names  will  startle  you : 
Mr,  and  Mrs.  Frederick  Graham  ! 
I  thought  he  stay'd  away  for  sliame. 
He  and  his  wife  were  ask'd,  you  know. 
And  would  not  come,  four  years  ago. 
You  recollect  Miss  Smythe  found  out 
Who  she  had  been,  and  all  about 
Her  people  at  the  Powder-mill ; 


PROM  LADY  CLITHEKOE  TO  MARY  CHURCHILL.    93 

And  how  the  fine  Aunt  tried  to  instil 

Haut  ton,  and  how,  at  last  poor  Jane 

Had  got  so  shy  and  gauche  that,  when 

The  Dockyard  gentry  came  to  sup, 

She  always  had  to  be  lock'd  up ; 

And  some  one  wrote  to  us  and  said 

Her  mother  was  a  kitchen-maid. 

Dear  Mary,  you'll  be  charm'd  to  know 

It  must  be  all  a  fib.     But,  oh, 

She  is  the  oddest  little  Pet 

On  which  my  eyes  were  ever  set ! 

She's  so  outree  and  natural 

That,  when  she  first  arrived,  we  all 

Wonder'd,  as  when  a  robin  comes 

In  through  the  window  to  eat  crumbs 

At  breakfast  with  us.     She  has  sense, 

Humility,  and  confidence ; 

And,  save  in  dressing  just  a  thought 

Gayer  in  colours  than  she  ought, 

(To-day  she  looks  a  cross  between 

Gipsy  and  Fairy,  red  and  green,) 

She  always  happens  to  do  well. 

And  yet  one  never  quite  can  tell 

What  she  might  do  or  utter  next. 

Lord  Clitheroe  is  much  perplex' d. 

Her  husband,  every  now  and  then, 

Looks  nervous ;  all  the  other  men 

Are  charm'd.     Yet  she  has  neither  grace. 


94  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Xor  oue  good  feature  in  her  face. 
Her  eyes,  indeed,  flame  in  her  head, 
Like  very  altar- fires  to  Fred, 
Whose  steps  she  follows  everywhere 
Like  a  tame  duck,  to  the  despair 
Of  Colonel  Holmes,  who  does  his  part 
To  break  her  funny -little  heart. 
Honor's  enchanted.     'Tis  her  view 
That  people,  if  they're  good  and  true, 
And  treated  well,  and  let  alone, 
Will  kindly  take  to  what's  their  own, 
And  always  be  original, 
Like  children.     Honor's  just  like  all 
The  rest  of  us  !     But,  thinking  so, 
'Tis  well  she  miss'd  Lord  Clitheroe, 
Who  hates  originality, 
Though  he  puts  up  with  it  in  me. 

Poor  Mrs.  Graham  has  never  been 
To  the  Opera  !     Tou  should  have  seen 
The  innocent  way  she  told  the  Earl 
She  thought  Plays  sinful  when  a  girl, 
And  now  she  never  had  a  chance  ! 
Frederick's  complacent  smile  and  glance 
Towards  her,  show'd  me,  past  a  doubt, 
Honoria  had  been  quite  cut  out. 
'Tis  very  strange  ;  for  Mrs.  Graham, 
Though  Frederick's  fancy  none  can  blame, 
Seems  the  last  woman  you'd  have  thought 


FROM  LADY  CLITHEROB  TO  MARY  CHURCHILL.    95 

Ker  lover  would  liave  ever  sought. 
She  never  reads,  I  find,  nor  goes 
Anywhere ;  so  that  I  suppose 
She  got  at  all  she  ever  knew 
By  growing  up,  as  kittens  do. 

Talking  of  kittens,  by-the-bye. 
You  have  more  influence  than  I 
With  dear  Honoria.     Get  her.  Dear, 
To  be  a  little  more  severe 
With  those  sweet  Children.     They've  the  run 
Of  all  the  place.     When  school  was  done, 
Maud  burst  in,  while  the  Earl  was  there. 
With  '  Oh,  Mama,  do  be  a  bear  ! ' 

Do  you  know,  Dear,  this  odd  wife  of  Fred 
Adores  his  old  Love  in  his  stead ! 
She  is  so  nice,  yet,  I  should  say, 
Not  quite  the  thing  for  every  day. 
Wonders  are  wearying  !     Felix  goes 
Next  Sunday  with  her  to  the  Close, 
And  you  will  judge. 

Honoria  asks 
All  Wiltshire  Belles  here ;  Felix  basks 
Like  Puss  in  fire-shine,  when  the  room 
Is  thus  aflame  with  female  bloom. 
But  then  she  smiles  when  most  would  pout ; 
And  so  his  lawless  loves  go  out 
With  the  last  brocade.     'Tis  not  the  same, 
I  fear,  with  Mrs.  Frederick  Graham, 


96  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Honoria  should  not  Lave  lier  here, — 
And  this  you  might  just  hint,  my  Dear, 
For  Felix  says  he  never  saw 
Such  proof  of  what  he  holds  for  law, 
That '  beauty  is  love  which  can  be  seen.' 
Whatever  he  by  this  may  mean, 
Were  it  not  dreadful  if  he  fell 
In  love  with  her  on  principle  ! 


97 


m. 

FROM  JANE  TO  MRS.  GRAHAM 

Mother,  I  told  yon  how,  at  first, 
I  fear'd  this  visit  to  the  Hurst. 
Fred  must,  I  felt,  be  so  distress'd 
By  aught  in  me  unlike  the  rest 
Who  come  here.     But  I  find  the  place 
Delightful ;  there's  such  ease,  and  grace, 
And  kindness,  and  all  seem  to  be 
On  such  a  high  equality. 
They  have  not  got  to  think,  you  know. 
How  far  to  make  the  money  go. 
But  Frederick  says  it's  less  the  ex})ense 
Of  money,  than  of  sound  good-sense, 
Quicknr  >s  to  care  what  others  feel, 
And  thoughts  with  nothing  to  conceal ; 
Which  I'll  teach  Johnny.     Mrs.  Yaug'han 
Was  waiting  for  us  on  the  Lawn, 
And  kiss'd  and  eall'd  me  '  Cousin.'     Fred 
Neglected  his  old  friends,  she  said. 
He  laugh'd,  and  colour'd  up  at  tJiis. 
She  was,  you  know,  a  flame  of  his ; 
But  I'm  not  jealous  !     Luncheon  done, 
I  left  him,  who  had  just  begun 
D— 122 


OS  THE    VICTORIES    OF    LOVE. 

To  talk  about  tlie  Russian  War 

Witli  an  old  Lady,  Lady  Carr, — 

A  Countess,  but  Vm  nioiv  afraid, 

A  great  deal,  of  the  Lady's  Maid, — 

And  went  with  Mrs.  Yauglian  to  see 

The  pictures,  which  appear'd  to  be 

Of  sorts  of  horses,  clowns,  and  cows 

Caird  Woiivennaus  and  Cuyps  and  Dows. 

And  then  she  took  nie  up,  to  show 

Her  bedroom,  where,  long  years  ago, 

A  Queen  slept.     'Tis  all  tapestries 

Of  Cupids,  Gods,  and  Goddes.ses, 

And  black,  carved  oak.     A  curtain'd  door 

Leads  thence  into  her  soft  Boudoir, 

Where  even  her  husband  may  but  come 

By  favour.     He,  too,  l»as  his  rodiu, 

Kept  sacred  to  his  solitude. 

Did  I  not  tliink  the  plan  was  gottd  ? 

She  ask'd  me;  but  I  said  how  small 

Our  house  was,  and  that,  after  all. 

Though  Frederick  would  not  say  his  prayers 

At  night  till  I  was  safe  upstairs, 

I  thought  it  wrong  to  be  so  shy 

Of  being  good  when  I  was  by. 

'  Oh,  you  should  humour  liim  I '  she  said, 

With  her  sweet  voice  and  smile;  and  led 

The  way  to  where  the  children  ate 

Their  dinner,  and  Miss  Willi.ims  sate. 


FROM    JANE    TO   MBS.    GRAHAM.  9L' 

Ske's  only  Nursery-Goveruess, 

Tet  they  cousider  lier  uo  less 

Thau  Lord  or  Lady  Carr,  or  me. 

Just  thiuk  how  happy  she  must  be  ! 

The  Bail-Room,  with  its  painted  sky 

Where  heavy  angels  seem  to  fly, 

Is  a  dull  place  ;  its  size  aud  gloom 

Make  them  prefer,  for  drawing-room. 

The  Library,  all  done  up  new 

And  comfortable,  with  a  view 

Of  Salisbury  Spire  between  the  boughs. 

When  she  had  shown  me  tlirougli  the  hou^e. 
(I  wish  I  could  have  let  her  know 
That  she  herself  was  half  the  show ; 
She  is  80  handsome,  aud  so  kiud  I) 

She  fetch'd  the  children,  who  had  diued ; 

Aud,  taking  one  in  either  hand, 

Show'd  me  how  all  the  grounds  were  plaun d. 

The  lovely  garden  gently  slopes 

To  where  a  curious  bridge  of  ropes 

Crosses  the  Avon  to  the  Park. 

We  rested  by  the  stream,  to  mark 

The  brown  backs  of  the  hovering  trout. 

Frank  tickled  one,  and  took  it  out 

From  under  a  stone.     We  saw  his  owls, 

Aud  awkward  Cochiu-Cliina  fowls. 

And  shaggy  pony  in  the  croft ; 

And  then  he  dragg'd  us  to  a  loft, 


100  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Where  pigeons,  as  he  push'd  the  dooi\ 

Faini'd  clear  a  breadth  of  dusty  floor. 

And  set  us  coughing.     I  confess 

I  trembled  for  my  nice  silk  dress. 

I  cannot  think  how  Mrs.  Yaughan 

Ventured  with  that  which  she  had  on, — 

A  mere  white  wrapper,  with  a  few 

Plain  trimmings  of  a  quiet  blue, 

But,  oh,  so  pretty !     Then  the  bell 

For  dinner  rang.     I  look'd  quite  well 

(*  Quite  charming,'  were  the  words  Fred  said,) 

With  the  new  gown  that  I've  had  made 

I  am  so  prou(J  of  Frederick. 
He's  so  high-bred  and  lordly-like 
With  Mrs.  Yaughan  !     He's  not  quite  so 
At  home  with  me  ;  but  that,  you  know, 
I  can't  expect,  or  wish.     'Twould  hurt, 
And  seem  to  mock  at  my  desert. 
Not  but  that  I'm  a  duteous  wife 
To  Fred ;  but,  in  another  life, 
Where  aU  are  fair  that  have  been  true, 
I  hope  I  shall  be  graceful  too, 
Like  Mrs,  Yaughan.     And,  now,  good-l)ye  I 
That  hapj)y  thought  has  made  me  cry, 
And  feel  half  sorry  that  my  cough, 
In  this  fine  air,  is  leaving  ofP. 


101 


TV. 

FROM  FREDERICK  TO  MRS.  GRAHAM. 

HoNORiA,  trebly  fair  aud  mild 
With  added  loves  of  lord  and  child, 
Is  else  iinalter'd.     Years,  which  wrong 
The  rest,  touch  not  her  beauty,  young 
With  youth  which  rather  seems  her  clime, 
Thau  aught  that's  relative  to  time. 
How  beyond  hope  was  heard  the  prayer 
I  ofPer'd  in  my  love's  despair  ! 
Could  auy,  whilst  there's  auy  woe, 
Be  wholly  blest,  then  she  were  so. 
She  is,  and  is  aware  of  it. 
Her  husband's  endless  benefit ; 
But,  though  their  daily  ways  reveal 
The  depth  of  private  joy  they  feel, 
'Tis  not  their  bearing  each  to  each 
That  does  abroad  their  secret  preach, 
But  such  a  lovely  good-intent 
To  all  within  their  government 
And  friendship  as,  'tis  well  discem'd, 
Each  of  the  other  must  have  leam'd ; 
For  no  mere  dues  of  neighbourhood 
Ever  begot  so  blest  a  mood. 


102  THE   VICTORIES    OP   LOVE. 

And  fair,  indeed,  should  be  the  few- 
God  dowers  with  nothing  else  to  do, 
And  liberal  of  their  light,  and  free 
To  show  themselves,  that  all  may  see  ! 
For  alms  let  poor  men  poorly  give 
The  meat  whereby  men's  bodies  live ; 
But  they  of  wealth  are  stewards  wise 
Whose  graces  are  their  charities. 

The  sunny  charm  about  this  home 
Makes  all  to  shine  who  thither  come. 
My  own  dear  Jane  has  caught  its  grace, 
And,  honoured,  honours  too  the  place. 
Across  the  lawn  I  lately  walk'd 
Alone,  and  watch'd  where  mov'd  and  talk'd, 
Gentle  and  goddess-like  of  air, 
Honoria  and  some  Stranger  fair. 
I  chose  a  path  unblest  by  these ; 
WTien  one  of  the  two  Goddesses. 
With  my  Wife's  voice,  but  softer,  said. 
'  Will  you  not  walk  with  us,  dear  Fred  ?  ' 

She  moves,  indeed,  the  modest  peer 
Of  all  the  proudest  ladies  here. 
Unawed  she  talks  with  men  who  stand 
Among  the  leaders  of  the  land, 
And  women  beautiful  and  wise, 
With  England's  greatness  in  their  eyes. 
To  high,  traditional  good-sense, 
And  knowledge  ripe  without  pretence. 


FROM    FREDERICK    TO   MRS.   GRAHAM.  103 

And  liiiman  truth  exactly  Iiit 
By  quiet  aud  conclusive  wit, 
Listens  my  little,  homely  Jane, 
Mistakes  the  points  and  laughs  amain  ; 
And,  after,  stands  and  combs  her  hair, 
And  calls  me  much  the  wittiest  there  ! 

With  reckless  loyalty,  dear  Wife, 
She  lays  herself  about  my  life  ! 
The  joy  I  might  have  had  of  yore 
I  have  not ;  for  'tis  now  no  more, 
With  me,  the  lyric  time  of  youth, 
And  sweet  sensation  of  the  truth. 
Yet,  past  my  hope  or  purpose  bless'd, 
In  my  chance  choice  let  be  confess'd 
The  tenderer  Providence  that  rules 
The  fates  of  children  and  of  fools  ! 

I  kiss'd  the  kind,  warm  neck  that  slep\ 
And  from  her  side  this  morning  stepp'd, 
To  bathe  my  brain  from  drowsy  night 
In  the  sharp  air  and  golden  light. 
The  dew,  like  frost,  was  on  the  pane. 
The  year  begins,  though  fair,  to  wane. 
There  is  a  fragrance  in  its  breatli 
Which  is  not  of  the  flowers,  but  death  ; 
And  green  above  the  ground  appear 
The  lilies  of  another  year. 
I  wander'd  forth,  and  took  my  patli 
Among  the  bloomless  aftermath  ; 


104  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

x\ucl  heard  the  steadfast  robin  sing 
As  if  his  own  warm  heart  were  Spring. 
And  watch'd  him  feed  where,  on  the  yew, 
Huug  houey'd  drops  of  crimson  dew  ; 
And  then  retum'd,  by  walls  of  peaeli. 
And  pear-trees  bending  to  my  reach. 
And  rose-beds  with  the  roses  gone. 
To  bright-laid  breakfast.    Mrs.  Yaugliau 
Was  there,  none  with  her.     I  confess 
I  love  her  than  of  yore  no  less  ! 
But  she  alone  was  loved  of  old ; 
Now  love  is  twain,  nay,  manifold ; 
For,  somehow,  he  whose  daily  life 
Adjusts  itself  to  one  true  wife. 
Grows  to  a  nuptial,  near  degree 
With  all  that's  fair  and  womanly. 
Therefore,  as  more  than  friends,  we  met. 
Without  constraint,  without  regret ; 
The  wedded  yoke  that  each  had  donn'd 
Seeming  a  sanction,  not  a  bond. 


105 


Y. 

FROM  MRS.  GRAHAM. 

Your  love  lacks  joy,  your  letter  says. 

Yes  ;  love  requires  the  focal  space 

Of  recollection  or  of  hope, 

E'er  it  can  measure  its  own  scope. 

Too  soon,  too  soon  comes  Death  to  shoAv 

We  love  more  deeply  than  we  know ! 

The  rain,  that  fell  upon  the  height 

Too  gently  to  he  call'd  delight, 

Within  the  dark  vale  reappears 

As  a  wild  cataract  of  tears ; 

And  love  in  life  should  strive  to  see 

Sometimes  what  love  in  death  would  be ! 

Easier  to  love,  we  so  should  find. 

It  is  than  to  be  just  and  kind. 

She's  gone  :  shut  close  the  coffin-lid  : 
What  distance  for  another  did 
That  death  has  done  for  her  !     The  good, 
Once  gazed  upon  with  heedless  mood, 
Now  fills  with  tears  the  famish'd  eye, 
And  tm-ns  all  else  to  vanity. 
'Tis  sad  to  see,  with  death  between, 
The  good  we  have  pass'd  and  have  not  seen  ! 


V 


10<;  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

How  strange  appear  the  words  of  all  ! 
The  looks  of  tliose  that  live  appal. 
They  are  the  ghosts,  aud  check  the  breath  : 
There's  no  reality  but  death. 
And  hunger  for  some  signal  given 
That  we  shall  have  our  own  in  heaven. 
But  this  the  God  of  love  lets  be 
A  horrible  uncertainty. 

How  great  her  smallest  virtue  seems. 
How  small  her  greatest  fault  !     Ill  dreams 
Were  those  that  foil'd  with  loftier  grace 
The  homely  kindness  of  her  face. 
'Twas  here  she  sat  aud  work'd.  and  there 
She  comb'd  and  kiss'd  the  children's  hair  ; 
Or.  with  one  baby  at  her  breast. 
Another  taught,  or  hush'd  to  rest. 
Praise  does  the  heart  no  more  refuse 
To  the  chief  loveliness  of  use. 
Her  humblest  good  is  hence  most  high 
In  tlie  heavens  of  fond  meuiory  ; 
And  Love  says  Amen  to  the  word. 
A  prudent  -wife  is  from  the  Lord. 
Her  worst  gown's  kept,  f  tis  now  the  best. 
As  that  in  which  she  oftenest  dress'd.) 
For  meniory's  sake  more  precious  grown 
Thau  she  herself  was  for  her  own. 
Poor  child  !     Foolish  it  seem'd  to  fly 
To  sobs  instead  of  disniitv. 


FROM    MRS.    GRAHAM.  107 

Wheu  she  was  hurt.     Now,  more  than  a]l, 
Heart-rending  and  angelical 
That  ignorance  of  what  to  do, 
Bewilder'd  still  by  wrong  from  you  : 
For  what  man  ever  yet  had  grace 
Xe'er  to  abuse  his  power  and  place  ? 

No  magic  of  her  voice  or  smile 
Suddenly  raised  a  fairy  isie, 
But  fondness  for  her  underwent 
An  unregarded  increment, 
Like  that  which  lifts,  through  centuries, 
The  coral-reef  within  the  seas, 
Till,  lo  !  the  land  where  was  the  wave. 
Alas  !  'tis  everywhere  her  grave. 


108 


YI. 

FROM  JANE  TO  MRS.  GRAHAM. 

Dear  Mother,  I  can  surely  tell, 

Now,  that  I  never  shall  get  well 

Besides  the  warning  in  my  mind, 

All  suddenly  are  grown  so  kind. 

Fred  stopp'd  the  Doctor,  yesterday, 

Downstairs,  and,  when  he  went  away, 

Came  smiling  back,  and  sat  with  me, 

Pale,  and  conversing  cheerfully 

About  the  Spring,  and  how  my  cough, 

In  finer  weather,  would  leave  off. 

I  saw  it  all,  and  told  him  plain 

I  felt  no  hope  of  Spring  again. 

Then  he,  after  a  word  of  jest. 

Burst  into  tears  upon  my  breast, 

And  own'd,  when  he  could  speak,  he  knew 

There  was  a  little  danger,  too. 

This  made  me  very  weak  and  ill. 

And  while,  last  night,  I  lay  quite  still, 

And,  as  he  fancied,  in  the  deep. 

Exhausted  rest  of  my  short  sleep, 

I  heard,  or  dream'd  I  heard  him  pray  : 

*  Oh,  Father,  take  her  not  away  I 


FROM   JANE   TO   MRS.   GRAHAM.  109 

•  Let  not  life's  dear  assurance  lapse 
'  Into  death's  agonised  "  Perhaps," 

'  A  hope  without  Thy  promise,  where 

'  Less  than  assurance  is  despair  ! 

'  Give  me  some  sign,  if  go  she  must, 

'  That  death's  not  worse  than  dust  to  dust, 

'  Not  heaven,  on  whose  oblivious  shore 

'  Joy  I  may  have,  but  her  no  more  ! 

'  The  bitterest  cross,  it  seems  to  me, 

'  Of  all  is  infidelity ; 

'  And  so,  if  I  may  choose,  I'll  miss 

'  The  kind  of  heaven  which  comes  to  this. 

'  If  doom'd,  indeed,  this  fever  ceased, 

•  To  die  out  wholly,  like  a  beast, 
'  Forgetting  all  life's  ill  success 

'  In  dark  and  peaceful  nothingness, 

•  I  could  but  say,  Thy  will  be  done  ; 
'  For,  dying  thus,  I  were  but  one 

'  Of  seed  innumerable  which  ne'er 
'  In  all  the  worlds  shall  bloom  or  bear. 
'  I've  put  life  past  to  so  poor  use 
'  Well  may'st  Thou  life  to  come  refuse  ; 
'  And  justice,  which  the  spirit  contents, 

•  Shall  still  in  me  all  vain  laments ; 

'  Nay,  pleased,  I  will,  while  yet  I  live, 

•  Think  Thou  my  forfeit  joy  may'st  give 

•  To  some  fresh  life,  else  unelect, 

•  And  heaven  not  feel  my  poor  defect ! 


110  THE   VICTORIES   OP   LOVE. 

'  Only  let  not  Thy  method  be 

'  To  make  that  life,  and  call  it  me  ; 

'  Still  less  to  sever  mine  in  twain, 

'  And  tell  each  half  to  live  again, 

'  And  count  itself  the  whole  !     To  die, 

'  Is  it  love's  disintegrity  ? 

*  Answer  me,  "  No,"  and  I,  with  grace, 

'  WiU  life's  brief  desolation  face, 

'  My  ways,  as  native  to  the  clime, 

'  Adjusting  to  the  wintry  time, 

'  Ev'n  with  a  patient  cheer  thereof — ' 

He  started  up,  hearing  me  cough. 
Oh,  Mother,  now  my  last  doubt's  gone  ! 
He  likes  me  Tnore  than  Mrs.  Yaughan  ; 
And  death,  which  takes  me  from  his  side 
Shows  me,  in  very  deed,  his  bride  ! 


Ill 


YII. 

FROM  JANE  TO  FREDERICK. 

I  LE  A.VE  this.  Dear,  for  jou  to  read, 
For  strength  and  hope,  when  I  am  dead. 
When  Grace  died,  I  was  so  perplex'd, 
I  could  not  find  one  helpful  text ; 
And  when,  a  little  while  before, 
I  saw  her  sobbing  on  the  floor. 
Because  I  told  her  that  in  heaven 
She  would  be  as  the  angels  even, 
And  would  not  want  her  doll,  'tis  true 
A  horrible  fear  within  me  grew, 
That,  since  the  ]3reciousness  of  love 
Went  thus  for  nothing,  mine  might  prove 
To  be  no  more,  and  heaven's  bliss 
Some  dreadful  good  which  is  not  this. 
But  being  about  to  die  makes  clear 
Many  dark  things.     I  have  no  fear, 
Now  that  my  love,  my  grief,  my  joy 
Is  but  a  passion  for  a  toy. 
I  cannot  speak  at  all,  I  find. 
The  shining  something  in  my  mind 
That  shows  so  much  that,  if  I  took 
My  thoughts  all  down,  'twould  make  a  book. 


112  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

God's  Word,  wliich  lately  seem'd  above 

The  simpleuess  of  human  love. 

To  my  death- sharpen'd  hearing  tells 

Of  little  or  of  nothing  else  ; 

And  many  things  I  hoped  "were  true, 

When  first  they  came,  like  songs,  from  yoii, 

Now  rise  with  witness  past  the  reach 

Of  doubt,  and  I  to  you  can  teach, 

As  if  with  felt  authority 

And  as  things  seen,  what  you  taught  me. 

Yet  how  ?     I  have  no  words  but  those 
Which  every  one  already  knows  : 
As,  '  No  man  hath  at  any  time 
'  Seen  God,  but  'tis  the  love  of  Him 
'  Made  i)erfect,  and  He  dwells  in  us, 
'  If  we  each  other  love.'     Or  thus, 
'  My  goodness  misseth  in  extent 
'  Of  Thee,  Lord !   In  the  excellent 
'  I  know  Thee ;  and  the  Saints  on  Earth 
'  Make  all  my  love  and  holy  mirth.' 
And  further,  '  Inasmuch  as  ye 
'  Did  it  to  one  of  these,  to  Me 
•  Ye  did  it,  though  ye  nothing  thought 
'  Nor  knew  of  Me,  in  that  ye  wrought.' 

What  shall  I  dread  ?     Will  God  undo 
Our  bond,  which  is  all  others  too  ? 
And  when  I  meet  you  will  you  say 
To  my  reclaiming  looks,  '  Away  ! 


FROM    JANE    TO    FREDERICK.  Hi 

'  A  dearer  love  my  bosom  warms 
'  With  higher  rights  aud  holier  charms. 
'  The  children,  whom  tliou  here  may'st  see, 
'  Neighbours  that  mingle  thee  and  me, 

•  And  gaily  on  impartial  lyres 

'  Renounce  the  foolish  filial  fires 

•  They  felt,  with  "  Praise  to  G-od  on  high, 
• ''  Goodwill  to  all  else  equally ; " 

•  The  trials,  duties,  service,  tears  ; 

•  Tlie  many  fond,  confiding  years 

'  Of  nearness  sweet  with  thee  apart ; 

•  The  joy  of  body,  mind,  and  heart ; 

■  The  love  that  grew  a  reckless  growth, 

'  Unmindful  that  the  marriage-oath 

'  To  love  in  an  eternal  style 

'  Meant — only  for  a  little  while  : 

'  Severed  are  now  tliose  bonds  earth- wi'ought  ; 

'  All  love,  not  new,  stands  here  for  nought ! ' 

Why,  it  seems  almost  wicked.  Dear, 
Even  to  utter  such  a  fear  ! 
Are  we  not  '  heirs,'  as  man  and  wife, 
'  Together  of  eternal  life  ?  ' 
Was  Paradise  e'er  meant  to  fade, 
To  make  which  marriage  first  was  made  ? 
Neither  beneath  him  nor  above 
Could  man  in  Eden  find  his  Love  ; 
Yet  with  him  in  the  garden  walk'd 
His  God,  and  with  Him  mildly  talk'd  ! 


THE    VICTORIES    OF    LOVE. 

Sli.'iU  the  liumble  proforoiiee  offend 

lu  lieaven,  which  God  did  tliere  commend? 

Are  '  honourable  and  undofik^d  ' 

The  names  of  aught  from  lioaven  exiled  ? 

And  are  we  not  forbid  to  grieve 

As  without  hope  ?     Does  God  deceive, 

And  call  tliat  hope  which  is  despair. 

Namely,  the  heaven  we  sliould  not  share  ! 

Image  and  glory  of  the  man. 

As  he  of  God,  is  woman.     Can 

This  holy,  sweet  proportion  die 

Into  a  dull  equality  ? 

Are  we  not  one  flesh,  yea,  so  far 

More  than  the  babe  and  mother  arc. 

That  sons  are  ])id  mothers  to  leave 

And  to  their  wives  alone  to  cleave. 

'  For  they  two  are  one  flesh  ! '     But  'tis 

In  the  flesh  we  rise.     Our  union  is. 

You  know  'tis  said,  '  great  mystery.' 

Great  mockery,  it  appears  to  me  ; 

Poor  image  of  the  spousal  bond 

Of  Christ  and  Church,  if  loosed  l)eyond 

This  life ! — 'Gainst  which,  and  much  more  yot, 

There's  not  a  single  word  to  set. 

The  speech  to  the  scoffing  Sadducee 

Is  not  in  point  to  you  and  me ; 

For  liow  could  Christ  have  taught  such  clods 

That  Caesar's  things  are  also  God's  P 


FROM   JANE    TO    FREDERICK.  11. 

The  sort  of  Wife  the  Law  could  make 
Might  well  be  '  hated '  for  Love's  sake, 
And  left,  like  money,  land,  or  house ; 
For  out  of  Christ  is  no  true  spouse. 

I  used  to  think  it  strange  of  Him 
To  make  love's  after-life  so  dim. 
Or  only  clear  by  inference  : 
But  God  trusts  much  to  connnon  sense, 
And  only  tells  us  what,  without 
His  Word,  we  could  not  have  found  out 
(In  fleshly  tables  of  the  heart 
He  penn'd  truth's  feeling  counterpart 
In  hopes  that  come  to  all :  so,  Dear, 
Trust  these,  and  be  of  happy  cheer, 
Nor  think  that  he  who  has  loved  well 
Is  of  all  men  most  miserable. 

There's  much  more  yet  I  want  to  say. 
But  cannot  now.     You  know  my  way 
Of  feeling  strong  from  Twelve  till  Two 
After  my  wine.     I'll  write  to  you 
Daily  some  words,  which  you  shall  have; 
To  hrcak  the  silence  of  tlie  grave. 


116 


VIII. 

FROM  JANE  TO  FREDERICK. 

Yotr  think,  perhaps,  '  Ah,  could  she  know 
How  much  I  loved  her ! '     Dear,  I  do  ! 
And  you  may  say,  '  Of  this  new  awe 
'  Of  heart  which  makes  her  fancies  law, 
'  These  watchful  duties  of  despair, 
'  She  does  not  dream,  she  cannot  care  ! ' 
Frederick,  you  see  how  false  that  is. 
Or  how  could  I  have  written  this  ? 
And,  should  it  ever  cross  your  mind 
That,  now  and  then,  you  were  unkind. 
You  never,  never,  were  at  all ! 
Remember  that !     It's  natural 
For  one  like  Mr.  Yaughan  to  come, 
From  a  morning's  useful  pastime,  home. 
And  greet,  with  such  a  courteous  zest. 
His  handsome  wife,  still  newly  dress'd, 
As  if  the  Bird  of  Paradise 
Should  daily  change  her  plumage  thrice. 
He's  always  well,  she's  always  gay. 
Of  course  !     But  he  who  toils  all  day, 
And  comes  home  hungry,  tired,  or  cold. 
And  feels  'twould  do  him  good  to  scold 


FROM   JANE    TO    FREDERICK.  117 

His  wife  a  little,  let  him  trust 

Her  love,  and  say  tlie  things  he  must, 

Till  sooth'd  in  mind  by  meat  and  rest. 

If,  after  that,  she's  well  caress'd, 

And  told  how  good  she  is,  to  bear 

His  humour,  fortune  makes  it  fair. 

Women  like  men  to  be  like  men ; 

That  is,  at  least,  just  now  and  then. 

Thus,  I  have  nothing  to  forgive, 

But  those  first  years,  (how  could  I  live  !) 

When,  though  I  really  did  behave 

So  stupidly,  you  never  gave 

One  unkind  word  or  look  at  all : 

As  if  I  was  some  animal 

You  pitied  !     Now  in  later  life, 

You  used  me  like  a  proper  Wife. 

You  feel,  Dear,  in  your  present  mood, 
Your  Jane,  since  she  was  kind  and  good, 
A  child  of  God,  a  living  soul. 
Was  not  so  different,  on  tlie  whole, 
From  Her  who  had  a  little  more 
Of  Grod's  best  gifts  :  but,  oh,  be  sure, 
My  dear,  dear  Love,  to  take  no  blame 
Because  you  could  not  feel  the  same 
Towards  me,  living,  as  when  dead. 
A  hungry  man  must  needs  think  bread 
So  sweet !  and,  only  at  their  rise 
And  setting,  blessings,  to  the  eyes, 


118  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Like  the  sim's  coni-so,  <:?row  visible. 
If  you  are  sad,  rememher  well, 
Against  delusions  of  despair, 
That  memory  sees  things  as  they  were. 
And  not  as  they  were  misenjoy'd, 
And  would  be  still,  if  aught  destroy'd 
The  glory  of  tlieir  hopelessness  : 
So  that,  in  truth,  you  had  me  less 
In  days  when  necessary  zeal 
For  my  perfection  made  you  feel 
My  faults  the  most,  than  now  your  love 
Forgets  but  where  it  can  approve. 
You  gain  by  loss,  if  that  seem'd  small 
Possess'd,  which,  being  gone,  turns  all 
Surviving  good  to  vanity. 
Oh,  Fred,  this  makes  it  sweet  to  die  ! 
Say  to  yourself  :  '  'Tis  comfort  yet 
'  I  made  her  that  which  I  regret ; 
'  And  parting  might  have  come  to  pass 

*  In  a  worse  season  ;  as  it  was, 
'  Love  an  eternal  temper  took, 

'  Dipp'd,  glowing,  in  Death's  icy  brook  I ' 

<^r  say,  '  On  her  poor  feeble  head 

'  This  might  have  fallen  :  'tis  mine  instead  ! 

*  And  so  great  evil  sets  me  free 

*  Henceforward  from  calamity. 

*  And,  in  her  little  cliildren,  too, 

'  How  much  for  hor  I  yet  can  do ! ' 


FROM    JANE    TO   FREDERICK.  110 

And  grieve  uot  for  these  orphans  even  ; 
For  central  to  the  love  of  Heaven 
Is  each  child  as  each  star  to  space. 
This  truth  my  dying  love  has  grace 
To  trust  with  a  so  sure  content, 
1  fear  I  seem  indifferent. 

You  must  not  think  a  chikl's  small  lieart 
Cold,  because  it  and  grief  soon  part. 
Fanny  will  keep  them  all  away, 
Lest  you  sliould  hear  them  laugh  and  play. 
Before  the  funeral's  over.     Then 
I  hope  you'll  be  yourself  again, 
And  glad,  with  all  your  soul,  to  find 
How  God  thus  to  the  sharpest  wind 
Suits  tlie  shorn  lambs.     Instruct  them,  Doai-, 
For  my  sake,  in  His  love  and  fear. 
And  show  how,  till  their  journey's  doue, 
Not  to  be  weary  they  must  run. 

Strive  not  to  dissipate  your  grief 
By  any  lightness.     True  relief 
Of  sorrow  is  by  sorrow  brought. 
And  yet  for  sorrow's  sake,  you  ought 
To  grieve  witli  measure.     Do  not  spend 
So  good  a  power  to  no  good  end ! 
"Would  you,  indeed,  have  memory  staj^ 
In  the  heart,  lock  up  and  put  away 
Relics  and  likenesses  and  all 
Musings,  whicli  waste  what  they  recall. 


120  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

True  comfort,  aud  the  ouly  thing 
To  soothe  without  diminishing 
A  prized  regret,  is  to  match  here, 
By  a  strict  life,  God's  love  severe. 
Yet,  after  all,  by  nature's  course, 
Feeling  must  lose  its  edge  aud  force. 
Again  you'll  reach  the  desert  tracts 
Where  only  sin  or  duty  acts. 
But,  if  love  always  lit  our  path, 
Where  were  the  trial  of  our  faith  ? 

Oh,  should  the  mournful  honeymoon 
Of  death  he  over  strangely  soon. 
And  life-long  resolutions,  made 
In  grievous  haste,  as  quickly  fade. 
Seeming  the  truth  of  grief  to  mock. 
Think,  Dearest,  'tis  not  by  the  clock 
That  sorrow  goes  !     A  month  of  tears 
Is  more  than  many,  many  years 
Of  common  time.     Shun,  if  you  can, 
However,  any  passionate  plan. 
Grieve  with  the  heart ;  let  not  the  head 
.   Grieve  on,  when  grief  of  heart  is  dead  ; 
For  all  the  powers  of  life  defy 
A  superstitious  constancy. 

The  only  bond  I  hold  you  to 
Is  that  which  nothing  can  undo. 
A  man  is  not  a  young  man  twice  ; 
Aud  if,  of  his  young  years,  he  lies 


FROM   JANE    TO    FREDERICK.  ]  21 

A  faithful  score  in  one  wife's  breast, 
She  need  not  mind  who  has  the  rest. 
In  this  do  what  you  will,  dear  Love, 
And  feel  quite  sure  that  I  approve. 
And,  should  it  chance  as  it  may  be. 
Give  her  my  wedding-ring  from  me  ; 
And  never  dream  that  you  can  err 
T'wards  me  by  being  good  to  her ; 
Nor  let  remorseful  thoughts  destroy 
In  you  the  kindly  flowering  joy 
And  pleasure  of  the  natural  life. 

But  don't  forget  your  fond,  dead  Wife. 
And,  Frederick,  should  you  ever  be 
Tempted  to  think  your  love  of  me 
All  fancy,  since  it  drew  its  breath 
So  much  more  sweetly  after  death, 
Remember  that  I  never  did 
A  single  thing  you  once  forbid  ; 
All  poor  folks  liked  me ;  and,  at  the  end. 
Your  Cousin  call'd  me  '  Dearest  Friend !  ' 

And,  now,  'twill  calm  your  grief  to  know, — 
You,  who  once  loved  Honoria  so, — 
There's  kindness,  that's  look'd  kiudlj'  on, 
Between  her  Emily  and  John. 
Tlius,  in  your  children,  you  will  wed  ! 
And  John  seems  so  much  comforted. 
(Like  Isaac  when  his  mother  died 
And  fair  Rebekah  was  his  bride), 


122  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

By  his  new  hope,  for  losing  me ! 

So  all  is  happiness,  you  see. 

And  that  reminds  me  how,  last  night, 

I  dreamt  of  heaven,  with  great  delight. 

A  strange,  kind  Lady  watch'd  my  face, 

Kiss'd  me,  and  cried,  '  His  hope  found  grace  ! ' 

She  bade  me  then,  jn  the  crystal  floor. 

Look  at  myself,  myseK  no  more  ; 

And  bright  within  the  mirror  shone 

Houoria's  smile,  and  yet  my  own  ! 

*  And,  when  you  talk,  I  hear,'  she  sigh'd, 

'  How  much  he  loved  her  !     Many  a  bride 

'  In  heaven  such  countersemblance  wears 

'  Through  what  Love  deem'd  rejected  prayers.' 

She  would  have  spoken  still ;  but,  lo, 

One  of  a  glorious  troop,  aglow 

From  some  great  work,  towards  her  came. 

And  she  so  laugh'd,  'twas  such  a  flame, 

Aaron's  twelve  jewels  seem'd  to  mix 

With  the  lights  of  the  Seven  Candlesticks. 


123 


IX. 


FROM  LADY  CLITHEROE  TO  MRS. 
GRAHAM. 

My  dearest  Aunt,  the  Wedding-day, 
But  for  Jane's  loss,  and  you  away. 
Was  all  a  Bride  from  lieaven  could  beg  ' 
Skies  bluer  than  the  sparrow's  egg. 
And  clearer  than  the  cuckoo's  call ; 
And  such  a  sun  !  the  flowers  all 
With  double  ardour  seem'd  to  blow  I 
The  very  daisies  were  a  show. 
Expanded  with  uncommon  pride, 
Like  little  pictures  of  the  Bride. 

Tour  Great-Niece  and  your  Grandson  were 
Perfection  of  a  pretty  pair. 
How  well  Hoiioria's  girls  turn  out, 
Although  they  never  go  about ! 
Dear  me,  what  trouble  and  expense 
It  took  to  teach  mine  confidence  ! 
Hers  greet  mankind  as  I've  heard  say 
That  wild  things  do,  where  beasts  of  prey 
Were  never  known,  nor  any  men 
Have  met  their  fearless  eyes  till  then. 
Their  grave,  inquiring  trust  to  find 


124  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

All  creatures  of  their  simi^le  kind 
Quite  disconcerts  bold  coxcombry, 
And  makes  less  perfect  candour  shy. 
Ah,  Mrs.  Graham  !  people  may  scoff, 
But  how  your  home-kept  girls  go  off ! 
How  Hymen  hastens  to  unband 
The  waist  that  ne'er  felt  waltzer's  hand ! 
At  last  I  see  my  Sister's  right, 
And  I've  told  Maud  this  very  night, 
(But,  oh,  my  daughters  have  such  wills  !) 
To  knit,  and  only  dance  quadrilles. 

Tou  say  Fred  never  writes  to  you 
Frankly,  as  once  he  used  to  do, 
About  himself ;  and  you  complain 
He  shared  with  none  his  gi'ief  for  Jane. 
It  all  comes  of  the  foolish  fright 
Men  feel  at  the  word,  hypocrite. 
Although,  when  first  in  love,  sometimes 
They  rave  in  letters,  talk,  and  rhymes, 
When  once  they  find,  as  find  they  must, 
How  hard  'tis  to  be  hourly  just 
To  those  they  love,  they  are  dumb  for  sliame, 
Where  we,  you  see,  talk  on  the  same. 

Honoria,  to  whose  heart  alone 
He  seems  to  open  all  his  own. 
At  times,  has  tears  in  her  kind  eyes, 
After  their  private  colloquies. 
He's  her  most  favour'd  guest,  and  moves 


FROM   liADY   CLITHEROE    TO    MRS.   GRAHAM.      125 

My  spleen  by  his  impartial  loves. 
His  pleasure  has  some  inner  spring 
Depending  not  on  anything. 
Petting  our  PoUy,  none  e'er  smiled 
More  fondly  on  his  favourite  child ; 
Yet,  playing  with  his  own,  it  is 
Somehow  as  if  it  were  not  his. 
He  means  to  go  again  to  sea. 
Now  that  the  wedding's  over.     He 
Will  leave  to  Emily  and  John 
The  little  ones  to  practise  on ; 
And  Major-domo,  Mrs.  Rouse, 
A  dear  old  soul  from  Wilton  House, 
Will  scold  the  housemaids  and  the  cook, 
Till  Emily  has  learn'd  to  look 
A  little  braver  than  a  lamb 
Surprised  by  dogs  without  its  dam ! 
Do,  dear  Aunt,  use  your  influence. 
And  try  to  teach  some  plain  good  sense 
To  Mary.     'Tis  not  yet  too  late 
To  make  her  change  her  chosen  state 
Of  single  silliness.     In  truth, 
I  fancy  that,  with  fading  youth. 
Her  will  now  wavers.     Yesterday, 
Though,  till  the  Bride  was  gone  away, 
Joy  shone  from  Mary's  loving  heart, 
I  found  her  afterwards  apart. 
Hysterically  sobbing.     I 


r2G  THE   VICTOKIES   OF   LOVE. 

Knew  much  too  well  to  ask  her  why. 
This  marrying  of  Nieces  daunts 
The  bravest  souls  of  maiden  Aunts. 
Though  Sisters'  children  often  blend 
Sweetly  the  bonds  of  child  and  friend, 
They  are  but  reeds  to  rest  upon. 
When  Emily  comes  back  with  John, 
Her  right  to  go  downstairs  before 
Aunt  Mary  will  but  be  the  more 
Observed  if  kindly  waived,  and  how 
Shall  these  be  as  they  were,  when  now" 
Niece  has  her  John,  and  Aunt  the  sense 
Of  her  superior  innocence  ? 
Somehow,  all  loves,  however  fond. 
Prove  lieges  of  the  nuptial  bond ; 
And  she  who  dares  at  this  to  scoff. 
Finds  all  the  rest  in  time  drop  off ; 
While  marriage,  like  a  mushroom-ring, 
Spreads  its  sure  circle  every  Spring. 

She  twice  refused  George  Yaue,  you  know; 
Yet,  when  he  died  three  years  ago 
In  the  Indian  war,  she  put  on  gray. 
And  wears  no  colours  to  this  day. 
And  she  it  is  who  charges  me, 
Dear  Aunt,  with  '  inconsistency  ! ' 


127 


X. 

FROM  FREDERICK   TO   HONORIA. 

Cousin,  my  thoughts  no  louger  try 
To  cast  the  fashion  of  the  sky. 
Imagination  can  extend 
Scarcely  in  part  to  comprehend 
The  sweetness  of  our  common  food 
Ambrosial,  which  ingratitude 
And  impious  inadvertence  waste, 
Studious  to  eat  but  not  to  taste. 
And  wlio  can  tell  what's  yet  in  store 
There,  but  that  earthly  things  have  more 
Of  all  that  makes  their  inmost  bliss. 
And  life's  an  image  still  of  this, 
But  haply  such  a  glorious  one 
As  is  the  rainbow  of  the  sun  ? 
Sweet  are  your  words,  but,  after  all 
Their  mere  reversal  may  befall 
The  partners  of  His  glories  wlio 
Daily  is  crucified  anew  ; 
Splendid  privations,  martyrdoms 
To  which  no  weak  remission  comes 
Perpetual  passion  for  the  good 
Of  them  that  feel  no  gratitude, 


128  THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

Far  circliugs,  as  of  planets'  fires, 

Round  never-to-be-reach'd  desires, 

Whatever  rapturously  sighs 

Tliat  life  is  love,  love  sacrifice. 

All  I  am  sure  of  heaven  is  this  : 

Howe'er  the  mode,  I  shall  not  miss 

One  true  delight  which  I  have  known. 

Not  on  the  changeful  earth  alone 

Shall  loyalty  remain  unmoved 

T'wards  everything  I  ever  loved. 

So  Heaven's  voice  calls,  like  Rachel's  voice 

To  Jacob  in  the  field,  '  Rejoice  ! 

'  Serve  on  some  seven  more  sordid  years, 

'  Too  short  for  weariness  or  tears ; 

\Serve  on  ;  then,  oh,  Beloved,  well-tried, 

'  Take  me  for  ever  as  thy  Bride  !  " 


129 


XI. 

FROM  MARY  CHURCHILL  TO  THE  DEAX. 

Charles  does  me  honour,  but  'twere  yain 
To  reconsider  now  again, 
And  so  to  doubt  the  clear-shown  truth 
I  sought  for,  and  received,  when  youth. 
Being  fair,  and  woo'd  by  one  whose  love 
Was  lovely,  fail'd  my  mind  to  move. 
God  bids  them  by  their  own  will  go, 
Who  ask  again  the  things  they  know ! 
I  grieve  for  my  infirmity. 
And  ignorance  of  how  to  be 
Faithful,  at  once  to  the  heavenly  life, 
And  the  fond  duties  of  a  wife. 
Narrow  am  I  and  want  the  art 
To  love  two  things  with  all  my  heart. 
Occupied  singly  in  His  search, 
Who,  in  the  Mysteries  of  the  Church. 
Returns,  and  calls  them  Clouds  of  Heaven^ 
I  tread  a  road,  straight,  hard,  and  even ; 
But  fear  to  wander  all  confused. 
By  two- fold  fealty  abused. 
Either  should  I  the  one  forget, 
Or  scantly  pay  the  other's  debt. 
E— 122 


130  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

You  bid  me,  Father,  count  the  cost. 
I  have ;  and  all  that  must  be  lost 
I  feel  as  only  woman  can. 
To  make  the  heart's  wealth  of  some  man, 
And  through  the  untender  world  to  move, 
Wrapt  safe  in  his  superior  love. 
How  sweet !    How  sweet  the  household  round 
Of  duties,  and  their  narrow  bound, 
So  plain,  that  to  transgress  were  hard, 
Yet  full  of  manifest  reward  ! 
The  charities  not  marr'd,  like  mine. 
With  chance  of  thwarting  laws  divine ; 
The  world's  regards  and  just  delight 
In  one  that's  clearly,  kindly  right, 
How  sweet !    Dear  Father,  I  endure, 
Not  without  sharp  regret,  be  sure, 
To  give  up  such  glad  certainty, 
For  what,  perhaps,  may  never  be. 
For  nothing  of  my  state  I  know, 
But  that  t'ward  heaven  I  seem  to  go, 
As  one  who  fondly  landward  hies 
Along  a  deck  that  seaward  flies. 
With  every  year,  meantime,  some  grace 
Of  earthly  happiness  gives  place 
To  humbling  ills,  the  very  charms 
Of  youth  being  counted,  henceforth,  harms  : 
To  blush  already  seems  absurd ; 
Nor  know  I  whether  I  should  herd 


FROM  MA14Y  CHURCHILL  TO  THE   DEAN.  131 

With  girls  or  wives,  or  sacllier  balk 
Maids'  merriment  or  matrons'  talk. 

But  strait's  the  gate  of  life  !     O'er  late, 
Besides,  'twere  now  to  change  my  fate  : 
For  flowers  and  fruit  of  love  to  form. 
It  must  be  Spring  as  well  as  warm. 
The  world's  delight  my  soul  dejects. 
Revenging  all  my  disrespects 
Of  old,  with  incapacity 
To  chime  with  even  its  harmless  glee, 
Which  soimds,  from  fields  beyond  my  range. 
Like  fairies'  music,  thin  and  strange. 
With  something  like  remorse,  I  grant 
The  world  has  beauty  which  I  want ; 
And  if,  instead  of  judging  it, 
I  at  its  Council  chance  to  sit, 
Or  at  its  gay  and  order 'd  Feast, 
My  place  seems  lower  than  the  least 
The  conscience  of  the  life  to  be 
Smives  me  with  inefficiency, 
And  makes  me  all  unfit  to  bless 
With  comfortable  earthliness 
The  rest-desiring  brain  of  man. 
Finally,  then,  I  fix  my  plan 
To  dwell  with  Him  that  dwells  apart 
In  the  highest  heaven  and  lowliest  heart ; 
Nor  will  I,  to  my  utter  loss, 
Look  to  pluck  roses  from*  the  Cross. 


132  THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

As  for  the  good  of  human  love, 
'Twere  countercheck  almost  enough 
To  think  that  one  must  die  before 
The  other ;  and  perhaps  *tis  more 
In  love's  last  interest  to  do 
Nought  the  least  contrary  thereto, 
Than  to  be  blest,  and  be  unjust, 
Or  suffer  injustice  ;  as  they  must, 
Without  a  miracle,  wliose  pact 
Compels  to  mutual  life  and  act, 
Whether  love  shines,  or  darkness  sleeps 
Cold  on  the  spirit's  changeful  deeps. 

Enough  if,  to  my  earthly  share, 
Fall  gleams  that  keep  me  from  despair. 
Happy  the  things  we  here  discern ; 
More  happy  those  for  which  we  yearn ; 
But  measurelessly  happy  above 
All  else  are  those  we  guess  not  of ! 


133 

XII. 

FROM    FELIX    TO    HONORIA. 

Dearest,  my  Love  and  Wife,  'tis  long 
Ago  I  closed  the  unfmish'd  soug 
Wliicli  never  could  be  finisli'd  ;  nor 
Will  ever  Poet  ntter  more 
Of  Love  than  I  did,  watching  well 
To  lure  to  speech  the  unspeakable ! 

*  Whij,  having  wo7i  her,  do  I  woo  ? ' 
That  final  strain  to  ihe  last  height  flew 
Of  written  joy,  which  wants  the  smile 
And  voice  that  are,  indeed,  the  while 
They  last,  the  very  things  you  speak, 
Honoria,  who  mak'st  music  weak 
With  ways  that  say,  '  Shall  I  not  be 

*  As  kind  to  all  as  Heaven  to  me  ?  ' 
And  yet,  ah,  twenty-fold  my  Bride  ! 
Rising,  this  twentieth  festal-tide, 
Tou  still  soft  sleeping,  on  this  day 
Of  days,  some  words  I  long  to  say, 
Some  words  superfluously  sweet 
Of  fresh  assurance,  thus  to  greet 
Your  waking  eyes,  which  never  grow 
Weary  of  telling  what  I  know 

So  well,  yet  only  well  enough 
To  wish  for  further  news  thereof. 

Here,  in  this  early  autumn  dawn. 
By  windows  opening  on  the  lawn. 


134  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Where  sunshine  seems  asleep,  though  bright, 

And  shadows  yet  are  sharp  with  night, 

And,  further  on,  the  wealthy  wheat 

Bends  in  a  golden  drowse,  how  sweet 

To  sit  and  cast  my  careless  looks 

Around  my  walls  of  well-read  books, 

Wherein  is  all  that  stands  redeem'd 

From  time's  huge  wreck,  all  men  have  dream'd 

Of  truth,  and  all  by  poets  known 

Of  feeling,  and  in  weak  sort  shown, 

And,  turning  to  my  heart  again. 

To  find  I  have  what  makes  them  vain, 

The  thanksgiving  mind,  which  wisdom  sums. 

And  you,  whereby  it  freshly  comes 

As  on  that  morning,  (can  there  be 

Twenty-two  years  'twixt  it  and  me  ?) 

When,  thrill'd  with  hopeful  love,  I  rose 

And  came  in  haste  to  Sarum  Close, 

Past  many  a  homestead  slumbering  white 

In  lonely  and  pathetic  light, 

Merely  to  fancy  which  drawn  blind 

Of  thirteen  had  my  Love  behind, 

And  in  her  sacred  neighbourhood 

To  feel  that  sweet  scorn  of  all  good 

But  her,  which  let  tlie  wise  forfend 

When  wisdom  learns  to  comprehend  ! 

Dearest,  as  each  returning  May 
I  see  the  season  new  and  gay 


FBOM    FELIX   TO   HONOEIA.  135 

With  new  joy  and  astonishment, 
And  Nature's  infinite  ostent 
Of  lovely  flowers  in  wood  and  mead. 
That  weet  not  whether  any  heed, 
So  see  I,  daily  wondering,  yon, 
And  worship  with  a  passion  new 
The  Heaven  that  visibly  allows 
Its  grace  to  go  about  my  house, 
The  partial  Heaven,  that,  though  I  err 
And  mortal  am,  gave  all  to  her 
Who  gave  herseK  to  me.     Yet  I 
Boldly  thank  Heaven,  (and  so  defy 
The  beggarly  soul'd  humbleness 
"Which  fears  God's  bounty  to  confess,) 
That  I  was  f  ashion'd  with  a  mind 
Seeming  for  this  great  gift  design'd, 
So  naturally  it  moved  above 
All  sordid  contraries  of  love, 
Strengthen'd  in  youth  with  discipline 
Of  light,  to  follow  the  divine 
Yision,  (which  ever  to  the  dark 
Is  such  a  plague  as  was  the  ark 
In  Ashdod,  Gath,  and  Ekron,)  still 
Discerning  with  the  docile  will 
"Wliich  comes  of  full  persuaded  thought, 
That  intimacy  in  love  is  nought 
Without  pure  reverence,  whereas  this, 
In  tearfuUest  banishment,  is  bliss. 


136  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE 

And  so,  dearest  Honoria,  I 
Have  never  learn'd  the  weary  sigh 
Of  those  that  to  their  love-feasts  went. 
Fed,  and  forgot  the  Sacrament ; 
And  not  a  trifle  now  occurs 
But  sweet  initiation  stirs 
Of  new-discover'd  joy,  and  lends 
To  feeling  change  that  never  ends  ; 
And  duties  which  the  many  irk, 
Are  made  all  wages  and  no  work. 

How  sing  of  such  things  save  to  her, 
Love's  self,  so  love's  interpreter  ? 
How  the  supreme  rewards  confess 
Which  crown  the  austere  voluptuousness 
Of  heart,  that  earns,  in  midst  of  wealth. 
The  appetite  of  want  and  health, 
Relinquishes  the  pomp  of  life 
And  beauty  to  the  pleasant  Wife 
At  home,  and  does  all  joy  despise 
As  out  of  place  but  in  her  eyes  ? 
How  praise  the  years  and  gravity 
That  make  each  favour  seem  to  be 
A  lovelier  weakness  for  her  lord  ? 
And,  ah,  how  find  the  tender  word 
To  tell  aright  of  love  that  glows 
The  fairer  for  the  fading  rose  ? 
Of  frailty  which  can  weight  the  arm 
To  lean  with  thrice  its  girlish  charm  ? 


FEOM    FELIX    TO   HONORIA.  137 

Of  grace  which,  like  this  autumn  day, 

Is  not  the  sad  one  of  decay, 

Yet  one  whose  pale  brow  pondereth 

The  far-off  majesty  of  death  ? 

How  tell  the  crowd,  whom  passion  rends, 

That  love  grows  mild  as  it  ascends  ? 

That  joy's  most  high  and  distant  mood 

Is  lost,  not  found  in  dancing  blood ; 

Albeit  kind  acts  and  smiling  eyes, 

And  all  those  fond  realities 

Which  are  love's  words,  in  us  mean  more 

Delight  than  twenty  years  before  ? 

How,  Dearest,  jGLuish  without  wrong 
To  the  speechless  heart,  the  unfinish'd  song, 
Its  high,  eventful  passages 
Consisting,  say,  of  things  like  these  : — 

One  morning,  contrary  to  law, 
Which,  for  the  most,  we  held  in  awe, 
Commanding  either  not  to  intrude 
On  the  other's  place  of  solitude 
Or  solitary  mind,  for  fear 
Of  coming  there  when  God  was  near. 
And  finding  so  what  should  be  known 
To  Him  who  is  merciful  alone, 
And  views  the  working  ferment  base 
Of  waking  flesh  and  sleeping  grace, 
Not  as  we  view,  our  kindness  check'd 
By  likeness  of  our  own  defect, 


138  THE    VICTORIES   OV    LOVE 

I,  venturing'  to  her  room,  because 

(Mark  the  excuse  I )  my  Birthday  'twas, 

Saw,  here  across  a  careless  chair, 

A  ball- dress  flung,  as  light  as  air, 

And,  here,  beside  a  silken  couch, 

Pillows  which  did  the  pressure  vouch 

Of  pious  knees,  (sweet  piety  ! 

Of  goodness  made  and  charity. 

If  gay  looks  told  the  heart's  glad  sense, 

LIuch  rather  than  of  penitence,) 

And,  on  the  couch,  an  open  book. 

And  written  list — I  did  not  look, 

Yet  just  in  her  clear  writing  caught : — 

•  Habitual  faults  of  life  and  thought 

'  Which  most  I  need  deliverance  from.' 

I  turn'd  aside,  and  saw  her  come 

Adown  the  filbert-shaded  way. 

Beautified  with  her  usual  gay 

Hypocrisy  of  perfectness. 

Which  made  her  heart,  and  mine  no  less. 

So  happy  !     And  she  cried  to  me, 

'  You  lose  by  breaking  rules,  you  see ! 

"  Your  Birthday  treat  is  now  half -gone 

'  Of  seeing  my  new  ball- dress  on.' 

And,  meeting  so  my  lovely  Wife, 

A  passing  pang,  to  think  that  life 

Was  mortal,  when  I  saw  her  laugh. 

Shaped  in  my  mind  this  epitaph  : 


FROM    FELIX   TO    HONORIA.  139 

*  Faults  had  she,  child  of  Adam's  stem. 

*  But  only  Heaven  knew  of  them.' 

Or  thus : 

For  many  a  dreadful  day, 
In  sea-side  lodgings  sick  she  lay, 
Noteless  of  love,  nor  seem'd  to  hear 
The  sea,  on  one  side,  thundering  near. 
Nor,  on  the  other,  the  loud  Ball 
Held  nightly  in  the  public  hall ; 
Nor  vex'd  they  my  short  slumbers,  though 
I  -vroke  up  if  she  breathed  too  low. 
Thus,  for  three  months,  with  terrors  rife, 
The  pending  of  lier  precious  life 
I  watched  o'er ;  and  the  danger,  at  last, 
The  kind  Physician  said,  was  past. 
Howbeit,  for  seven  harsh  weeks  the  East 
Breathed    witheringly,    and    Spring's    growth 

ceased, 
And  so  she  only  did  not  die ; 
Until  the  bright  and  blighting  sky 
Changed  into  cloud,  and  the  sick  flowers 
Remember'd  their  perfumes,  and  showers 
Of  warm,  small  rain  refreshing  flew 
Before  the  South,  and  the  Park  grew, 
In  three  nights,  thick  with  green.     Then  she 
Revived,  no  less  than  flower  and  tree, 
In  the  mild  air,  and,  the  fourth  day. 
Looked  supematurally  gay 


140  THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

With  large,  thanksgiving  eyes,  that  shone. 

The  while  I  tied  her  bonnet  on, 

So  that  I  led  her  to  the  glass, 

And  bade  her  see  how  fair  she  was, 

And  how  love  visibly  could  shine. 

Profuse  of  hers,  desiring  mine, 

And  mindful  I  had  loved  her  most 

When  beauty  seem'd  a  vanish'd  boast, 

She  laugh'd.     I  press'd  her  then  to  me, 

Nothing  but  soft  humility ; 

Nor  e'er  enhanced  she  with  such  charms 

Her  acquiescence  in  my  arms. 

And,  by  her  sweet  love-weakness  made 

Courageous,  powerful,  and  glad. 

In  a  clear  illustration  high 

Of  heavenly  affection,  I 

Perceived  that  utter  love  is  all 

The  same  as  to  be  rational. 

And  that  the  mind  and  heart  of  love, 

Which  think  they  cannot  do  enough, 

Are  truly  the  everlasting  doors 

Wherethrough,  all  unpetition'd,  pours 

The  eternal  pleasance.     Wherefore  we 

Had  innermost  tranquillity, 

And  breathed  one  life  with  such  a  sense 

Of  friendship  and  of  confidence, 

That,  recollecting  the  sure  word : 

'  If  two  of  you  are  in  accord 


FROM    FELIX   TO    HONORIA.  141 

'  On  earth,  as  touching  any  boon 
'  Which  ye  shall  ask,  it  shall  be  done 
'  In  heaven,'  we  ask'd  that  heaven's  bliss 
Might  ne'er  be  any  less  than  this ; 
And,  for  that  hour,  "we  seem'd  to  have 
The  secret  of  the  joy  we  gave. 

How  sing  of  such  things,  save  to  her. 
Love's  self,  so  love's  interpreter  ? 
How  read  from  such  a  homely  page 
In  the  ear  of  this  unhomely  age  P 
'Tis  now  as  wlien  the  Propliet  cried  : 
'  The  nation  hast  Tliou  multiplied, 

*  But  Thou  liast  not  increased  the  joy  ! ' 
And  yet,  ere  wrath  or  rot  destroy 

Of  England's  state  the  ruin  fair. 

Oh,  might  I  so  its  charm  declare, 

That,  in  new  Lands,  in  far-off  years. 

Delighted  he  should  cry  that  hears  : 

'  Great  is  the  Laud  that  somewhat  best 

'  Works,  to  the  wonder  of  the  rest  ! 

'  We,  in  our  day,  have  better  done 

'  This  thing  or  that  than  any  one ; 

'  And  who  but,  still  admiring,  sees 

'  How  excellent  for  images 

'  Was  Greece,  for  laws  how  wise  was  Rome ; 

*  But  read  this  Poet,  and  say  if  home 
'And  private  love  did  e'er  so  smile 

*  As  in  that  ancient  Euoflish  isle  ! ' 


142 


XIIL 

FROM   LADY    CLTTHEROE   TO    EMILY 
GRAHAM. 

My  dearest  Niece,  I'm  cliarm'd  to  hear 
The  scenery's  fine  at  Windermere, 
And  glad  a  six-weeks'  wife  defers 
In  the  least  to  wisdom  not  yet  hers. 
But,  Child,  I've  no  advice  to  give  ! 
Rules  only  make  it  hard  to  live. 
And  Where's  the  good  of  having  been 
Well  taught  from  seven  to  seventeen. 
If,  married,  you  may  not  leave  off, 
And  say,  at  last,  '  I'm  good  enough ! ' 
Weeding  out  folly,  still  leave  some. 
It  gives  both  lightness  and  aplomb. 
We  know,  however  wise  by  rule,. 
Woman  is  still  by  naturo  fool ; 
And  men  have  sense  to  like  her  all 
The  more  when  she  is  natural. 
'Tis  true,  that  if  we  choose,  we  can 
Mock  to  a  miracle  the  man ; 
But  iron  in  the  fire  red  hot, 
Though  'tis  the  heat,  the  fire  'tis  not : 
-Vnd  who,  for  such  a  feint,  would  pledge 


FROM   LADY   CLITHEROE    TO   EMILY    GRAHAM.    145 

The  babe's  and  woman's  privilege, 
No  duties  and  a  tliousand  rights  ? 
Besides,  defect  love's  flow  incites. 
As  water  in  a  well  will  run 
Only  the  while  'tis  drawn  upon. 

'  Point  de  culte  .sans  mystcre,'  you  say, 
'  And  what  if  that  should  die  away  ? ' 
Child,  never  fear  that  either  could 
Pull  from  Saint  Cupid's  face  the  liood. 
The  follies  natural  to  each 
Surpass  the  other's  moral  reach. 
Just  think  how  men,  with  sword  and  gnu. 
Will  really  fight,  and  never  run  ; 
And  all  in  sport :  they  wculd  liave  died. 
For  sixpence  more,  on  the  other  side  ! 
A  woman's  heart  must  ever  warm 
At  such  odd  ways  :  and  so  we  charm 
By  strangeness  which,  the  more  they  msik, 
The  more  men  get  into  the  dark. 
The  marvel,  by  familiar  life, 
Grows,  and  attaches  to  the  wife 
By  whom  it  grows.     Thus,  silly  Girl, 
To  John  you'll  always  be  the  pearl 
In  the  oyster  of  the  universe ; 
And,  though  in  time  he'll  treat  you  worse. 
He'll  love  you  more,  you  need  not  doubt, 
And  never,  never  find  you  out  ! 

My  Dear,  I  know  that  dreadful  thought 


144  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

That  you've  been  kinder  than  you  ought. 
It  almost  makes  you  hate  him !     Yet 
'Tis  wonderful  how  men  forget, 
And  how  a  merciful  Providence 
Deprives  our  husbands  of  all  sense 
Of  kindness  past,  and  makes  them  deem 
We  always  were  what  now  we  seem. 
For  their  own  good  we  must,  you  know 
However  plain  the  way  we  go, 
Still  make  it  strange  with  stratagem  ; 
And  instinct  tells  us  that,  to  them, 
'Tis  always  right  to  bate  their  price. 
Yet  I  must  say  they're  rather  nice, 
And,  oh,  so  easily  taken  in 
To  cheat  them  almost  seems  a  sin ! 
And,  Dearest,  'twould  be  most  unfair 
To  John  your  feelings  to  compare 
With  his,  or  any  man's  ;  for  she 
Who  loves  at  all  loves  always  ;  he. 
Who  loves  far  more,  loves  yet  by  fits, 
And,  when  the  wayward  wind  remits 
To  blow,  his  feelings  faint  and  drop 
Like  forge-flames  when  the  bellows  stop. 
Such  things  don't  trouble  you  at  all 
When  once  you  know  they're  natural. 

My  love  to  Jolm  ;  and,  pray,  my  Dear, 
Don't  let  me  see  you  for  a  year  ; 
Unless,  indeed,  ere  then  you've  leam'd 


FROM    LADY   CLITHEROE    TO    EMILY   GRAHAM.    145 

That  Beauties  wed  are  blossoms  turn'd 
To  unripe  codlings,  meant  to  dwell 
In  modest  shadow  hidden  well, 
Till  this  green  stage  again  permute 
To  glow  of  flowers  with  good  of  fruit. 
I  will  not  have  my  patience  tried 
By  your  absurd  new-married  pride. 
That  scorns  the  world's  slow-gather'd  sense 
Ties  up  the  hands  of  Providence, 
Rules  babes,  before  there's  hope  of  one. 
Better  than  mothers  e'er  have  done, 
And,  for  your  poor  particular, 
Neglects  delights  and  graces  far 
Beyond  your  crude  and  thin  conceit. 
Age  has  romance  almost  as  sweet 
And  much  more  generous  than  this 
Of  yours  and  John's.     With  all  the  bliss 
Of  the  evenings  when  you  coo'd  with  hiu 
And  upset  home  for  your  sole  whim, 
You  might  have  envied,  were  you  wise, 
The  tears  within  your  Mother's  eyes, 
Which,  I  dare  say,  you  did  not  see. 
But  let  that  pass  !     Yours  yet  will  be, 
I  hope,  as  happy,  kind,  and  true 
As  lives  which  now  seem  void  to  you. 
Ha7e  you  not  seen  shop-painters  j)asto 
Their  gold  in  sheets,  then  rub  to  waste 
Full  half,  and,  lo,  you  read  the  name  ? 


146  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Well,  Time,  my  Dear,  does  much  the  same 
With  this  unmeaning  glare  of  love. 

But,  though  you  yet  may  much  improve. 
In  marriage,  be  it  still  confess'd. 
There's  little  merit  at  the  best. 
Some  half-a-dozen  lives,  indeed, 
Which  else  would  not  have  had  the  heed. 
Get  food  and  nurture  as  the  price 
Of  antedated  Paradise ; 
But  what's  that  to  the  varied  want 
Suecour'd  by  Mary,  your  dear  Aunt, 
Who  put  the  bridal  crown  thrice  by, 
For  that  of  which  virginity. 
So  used,  has  hope  ?     She  sends  her  love, 
As  usual  with  a  proof  thereof — 
Papa's  discourse,  which  you,  no  doubt, 
Heard  none  of,  neatly  copied  out 
WTiilst  we  were  dancing.     All  are  well, 
Adieu,  for  there's  the  Luncheon  Bell. 


147 


THE    WEDDIJSTG  SERMON. 

1 

The  truths  of  Love  are  like  the  sea 
For  clearness  and  for  mystery. 
Of  that  sweet  love  which,  startling,  wakes 
Maiden  and  Youth,  and  mostly  breaks 
The  word  of  promise  to  the  ear, 
But  keeps  it,  after  many  a  year, 
To  the  full  spirit,  how  shall  I  speak  ? 
My  memory  with  age  is  weak, 
.Ajid  I  for  hopes  do  oft  suspect 
The  things  I  seem  to  recollect. 
Yet  who  but  must  remember  well 
'Twas  this  made  heaven  intelligible 
As  motive,  though  'twas  small  the  power 
The  heart  might  have,  for  even  an  hour. 
To  hold  possession  of  the  height 
Of  nameless  pathos  and  delight ! 

2 

In  Godhead  rise,  thither  flow  back 
All  loves,  which,  as  they  keep  or  lack. 
In  their  return,  the  course  assign'd, 
Are  virtue  or  sin.     Love's  every  kind, 
Lofty  or  low,  of  spirit  or  sense, 


148  THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

Desire  is,  or  benevolence. 
He  who  is  fairer,  better,  higher 
Than  all  His  works,  claims  all  desire. 
And  in  His  Poor,  His  Proxies,  asks 
Our  whole  benevolence  :  He  tasks, 
Howbeit,  His  People  by  their  powers ; 
And  if,  my  Children,  you,  for  hours, 
Daily,  untortur'd  in  the  heart, 
Can  worship,  and  time's  other  part 
Grive,  without  rough  recoils  of  sense. 
To  the  claims  ingrate  of  indigence, 
Happy  are  you,  and  fit  to  be 
Wrought  to  rare  heights  of  sanctity, 
For  the  humble  to  grow  humbler  at. 
But  if  the  flying  spirit  falls  flat, 
After  the  modest  spell  of  prayer 
That  saves  the  day  from  sin  and  care, 
And  the  upward  eye  a  void  descries, 
And  praises  are  hypocrisies, 
And,  in  the  soul,  o'erstrain'd  for  grace, 
A  godless  anguish  grows  apace  ; 
Or,  if  impartial  charity 
Seems,  in  the  act,  a  sordid  lie, 
Do  not  infer  you  cannot  please 
God,  or  that  He  His  promises 
Postpones,  but  be  content  to  love 
No  more  than  He  accounts  enough. 
Account  them  poor  enough  who  want 


THE    WEDDING   SEKMON.  149 

Any  good  thing  whicli  you  can  grant ; 
And  fathom  well  the  depths  of  life 
In  loves  of  Husband  and  of  Wife, 
Child,  Mother,  Father ;  simple  keys 
To  what  cold  faith  calls  mysteries. 

3 

The  love  of  marriage  claims,  above 
All  other  kinds,  the  name  of  love, 
As  perfectest,  though  not  so  high 
As  love  which  Heaven  with  single  eye 
Considers.     Equal  and  entire, 
Therein  benevolence,  desire. 
Elsewhere  ill-join'd  or  found  apart, 
Become  the  pulses  of  one  heart, 
Which  now  contracts,  and  now  dilates, 
And,  both  to  the  height  exalting,  mates 
SeK-seeking  to  self-sacrifice. 
Nay,  in  its  subtle  paradise 
(When  purest)  this  one  love  unites 
All  modes  of  these  two  opposites. 
All  balanced  in  accord  so  rich 
Who  may  determine  which  is  which  ? 
Chiefly  God's  Love  does  in  it  live, 
And  nowhere  else  so  sensitive  ; 
For  each  is  all  that  the  other's  eye. 
In  the  vague  vast  of  Deity, 
Can  comprehend  and  so  contain 


150  THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

As  still  to  touch  and  ne'er  to  strain 
The  fragile  nerves  of  joy.     And  then 
'Tis  such  a  wise  goodwill  to  men 
And  politic  economy 
As  in  a  prosperous  State  we  see, 
Where  every  plot  of  common  land 
Is  yielded  to  some  private  hand 
To  fence  about  and  cultivate. 
Does  narrowness  its  praise  abate  ? 
iSTay,  the  infinite  of  man  is  found 
But  in  the  beating  of  its  bound. 
And,  if  a  brook  its  banks  o'erpass, 
'Tis  not  a  sea.  but  a  morass. 


1^0  giddiest  liope,  no  wildest  guess 
Of  Love's  most  innocent  loftiness 
Had  dared  to  dream  of  its  own  worth, 
Till  Heaven's  bold  sun-gleam  lit  the  earth. 
Christ's  marriage  with  the  Church  is  more, 
My  Children,  than  a  metaphor. 
The  heaven  of  heavens  is  symbol'd  where 
The  torch  of  Psyche  flash'd  despair. 

But  here  I  speak  of  heights,  and  heights 
Are  hardly  scaled.     The  best  delights 
Of  even  this  homeliest  passion,  are 
In  the  most  perfect  souls  so  rare, 
That  they  who  feel  them  are  as  men 


THE    WEDDING   SERMON.  161 

Sailing  the  Southern  ocean,  when, 
At  midnight,  they  look  up,  and  eye 
The  starry  Cross,  and  a  strange  sky 
Of  brighter  stars ;  and  sad  thoughts  come 
To  each  how  far  he  is  from  home. 


Love's  inmost  nuptial  sweetness  see 
In  the  doctrine  of  virginity  ! 
Could  lovers,  at  their  dear  wish,  blend, 
'Twould  kill  the  bliss  which  they  intend  ; 
For  joy  is  love's  obedience 
Against  the  law  of  natural  sense  ; 
And  those  perpetual  yearnings  sweet 
Of  lives  which  dream  that  they  can  meet 
Are  given  that  lovers  never  may 
Be  without  sacrifice  to  lay 
On  the  high  altar  of  true  love, 
With  tears  of  vestal  joy.     To  move 
Frantic,  like  comets  to  our  bliss, 
Forgetting  that  we  always  miss, 
And  so  to  seek  and  fly  the  sun, 
By  turns,  around  which  love  should  run, 
Perverts  the  ineffable  delight 
Of  service  guerdon'd  with  full  sight 
And  pathos  of  a  hopeless  want, 
To  an  unreal  victory's  vaunt, 
And  plaint  of  an  unreal  defeat. 


152  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Yet  no  less  dangerous  misconceit 

May  also  be  of  the  virgin  will, 

Whose  goal  is  nuptial  blessing  still, 

And  whose  true  being  doth  subsist, 

There  where  the  outward  forms  are  miss'd. 

In  those  who  learn  and  keep  the  sense 

Divine  of  '  due  benevolence,' 

Seeking  for  aye,  without  alloy 

Of  selfish  thought,  another's  joy. 

And  finding  in  degrees  unknown 

That  which  in  act  they  shunn'd,  their  own. 

For  all  delights  of  earthly  love 

Are  shadows  of  the  heavens,  and  move 

As  other  shadows  do ;  they  flee 

From  him  that  follows  them ;  and  he 

Who  flies,  for  ever  finds  his  feet 

Embraced  by  their  pursuings  sweet. 


Then,  even  in  love  humane,  do  I 
Not  counsel  aspirations  high, 
So  much  as  sweet  and  regular 
Use  of  the  good  in  which  we  are. 
As  when  a  man  along  the  ways 
Walks,  and  a  sudden  music  plays. 
His  step  unchanged,  he  steps  in  time, 
So  let  your  Grace  with  Nature  chime. 
Her  primal  forces  bui-st,  like  straws, 


THE    WEDDING   SERMON.  153 

The  bonds  of  uncongenial  laws. 

Right  life  is  glad  as  well  as  just, 

And,  rooted  strong  in  '  This  I  must,' 

It  bears  aloft  the  blossom  gay 

And  zephyr-toss'd,  of  '  This  I  may  ; ' 

Whereby  the  complex  heavens  rejoice 

In  fruits  of  uneommanded  choice. 

Be  this  your  rule  :  seeking  delight 

Esteem  success  the  test  of  right ; 

For  'gainst  God's  will  much  may  be  done, 

But  nought  enjoy'd,  and  pleasures  none 

Exist,  but,  like  to  springs  of  steel. 

Active  no  longer  than  they  feel 

The  checks  that  make  them  serve  the  soul, 

They  take  their  vigour  from  control. 

A  man  need  only  keep  but  well 

The  Church's  indispensable 

First  precepts,  and  she  then  allows, 

Nay,  more,  she  bids  him,  for  his  spouse, 

Leave  even  his  heavenly  Father's  awe. 

At  times,  and  His  immaculate  law. 

Construed  in  its  extremer  sense. 

Jehovah's  mild  magnipotence 

Smiles  to  behold  His  children  play 

In  their  own  free  and  childish  way, 

And  can  His  fullest  praise  descry 

In  the  exuberant  liberty 

Of  those  who,  having  understood 


154  THE    VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

The  glory  of  the  Central  Good, 

And  how  souls  ne'er  may  match  or  merge, 

But  as  they  thitherward  converge, 

Take  in  love's  innocent  gladness  part 

With  infantine,  untroubled  heart, 

And  faith  that,  straight  t'wards   heaven's  far 

Spring, 
Sleeps,  like  the  swallow,  on  the  wing. 

7 
Lovers,  once  married,  deem  their  bond 
Then  perfect,  scanning  nought  beyond 
For  love  to  do  but  to  sustain 
The  spousal  hour's  delighted  gain. 
But  time  and  a  right  life  alone 
Fulfil  the  promise  then  foreshown. 
The  Bridegroom  and  the  Bride  withal 
Are  but  unwrought  material 
Of  marriage ;  nay,  so  far  is  love, 
Thus  crown'd,  from  being  thereto  enough, 
Without  the  long,  compulsive  awe 
Of  duty,  that  the  bond  of  law 
Does  oftener  marriage-love  evoke, 
Than  love,  which  does  not  wear  the  yoke 
Of  legal  vows,  submits  to  be 
Self-rein'd  from  ruinous  liberty. 
Lovely  is  love  ;  but  age  well  knows 
'Twas  law  which  kept  the  lover's  vows 


THE   WEDDING   SERMON.  155 

Inviolate  through  the  year  or  years 
Of  worship  pieced  with  panic  fears, 
When  she  who  lay  within  his  breast 
Seem'd  of  all  women  perhaps  the  best, 
But  not  the  whole,  of  womankind. 
Or  love,  in  his  yet  wayward  mind, 
Had  ghastly  doubts  its  precious  life 
Was  pledged  for  aye  to  the  wrong  wife. 

Could  it  be  else  ?     A  youth  pursues 
A  maid,  whom  chance,  not  he,  did  choose, 
Till  to  his  strange  arms  hurries  slie 
In  a  despair  of  modesty. 
Then,  simply  and  without  pretence 
Of  insight  or  experience. 
They  plight  their  vows.     The  parents  say 
'  We  cannot  speak  them  yea  or  nay ; 
'  The  thing  procaedeth  from  thg  Lord  I ' 
And  wisdom  stiU  approves  their  word ; 
For  God  created  so  these  two 
They  match  as  well  as  others  do 
That  take  more  pains,  and  trust  Hi  lu  less 
Who  never  fails,  if  ask'd,  to  bless 
His  children's  helpless  ignorance 
And  blind  election  of  life's  chance. 
Yerily,  choice  not  matters  much. 
If  but  the  woman's  truly  such, 
And  the  young  man  has  led  the  life 
Without  which  how  shall  e'er  the  wife 


156  THE   VICTORIES   OF   LOVE. 

Be  the  one  woman  in  the  world  ? 

Love's  sensitive  tendrils  sicken,  curl'd 

Round  folly's  former  stay;  for  'tis 

The  doom  of  all  uusanction'd  bliss 

To  mock  some  good  that,  gaiu'd,  keeps  still 

The  taint  of  the  rejected  ill. 


Howbeit,  though  both  were  perfect,  she 
Of  whom  the  maid  was  prophecy 
As  yet  lives  not,  and  Love  rebels 
Against  the  law  of  any  else ; 
And,  as  a  steed  takes  blind  alarm. 
Disowns  the  rein,  and  hunts  his  harm. 
So,  misdespairing  word  and  act 
May  now  perturb  the  happiest  pact. 

The  more,  indeed,  is  love,  the  more 
Peril  to  love  is  now  in  store. 
Against  it  nothing  can  be  done 
But  only  this  :  leave  ill  alone  ! 
Who  tries  to  mend  his  wife  succeeds 
As  he  who  knows  not  what  he  needs. 
He  much  affronts  a  worth  as  high 
As  his,  and  that  equality 
Of  spirits  in  which  abide  the  grace 
And  joy  of  her  subjected  place ; 
And  does  the  still  growth  check  and  blur 
Of  contraries,  confusing  her 


THE    WEDDING   SERMON.  157 

Who  better  knows  what  he  desh-es 
Than  he,  and  to  that  mark  aspires 
With  perfect  zeal,  and  a  deep  wit 
Which  nothing  helps  but  trusting  it. 

So,  loyally  o'erlooking  all 
In  which  love's  promise  short  may  fail 
Of  full  performance,  honour  that 
As  won,  which  aye  love  worketh  at ! 
It  is  but  as  the  pedigi-ee 
Of  perf  ectness  which  is  to  be 
That  our  best  good  can  honour  claim ; 
Yet  honour  to  deny  were  shame 
And  robbery  :  for  it  is  the  mould 
Wherein  to  beauty  runs  the  gold 
Of  good  intention,  and  the  prop 
That  lifts  to  the  sun  the  earth-drawn  crop 
Of  human  sensibilities. 

Such  honour,  with  a  conduct  wise 
In  common  things,  as,  not  to  steep 
The  lofty  mind  of  love  in  sleep 
Of  orer  much  f  amiliarness ; 
Not  to  degrade  its  kind  caress, 
As  those  do  that  can  feel  no  more, 
So  give  themselves  to  pleasures  o'er  ; 
Not  to  let  morning-sloth  destroy 
The  evening-flower,  domestic  joy  ; 
Not  by  uxoriousness  to  chill 
The  warm  devotion  of  her  will 


158  THE    VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

Who  can  but  lialf  her  love  confer 

On  him  that  cares  for  nought  but  her ; — 

These,  and  like  obvious  prudeneies 

Observed,  he's  safest  that  relies, 

For  the  hope  she  will  not  always  seem. 

Caught,  but  a  laurel  or  a  stream, 

On  time  ;  on  her  unsearchable 

Love- wisdom ;  on  their  work  done  well. 

Discreet  with  mutual  aid  ;  on  might 

Of  shared  affliction  and  delight ; 

On  pleasures  that  so  childish  be 

They're  'shamed  to  let  the  children  see, 

By  which  life  keeps  the  valleys  low 

Where  love  does  naturally  grow  ; 

On  much  whereof  hearts  have  account, 

Though  heads  forget;  on  babes,  chief  fount 

Of  union,  and  for  which  babes  are 

Xo  less  than  this  for  them,  nay  far 

More,  for  the  .bond  of  man  and  wife 

To  the  very  verge  of  future  life 

Strengthens,  and  yearns  for  brighter  day, 

While  others,  with  their  use,  decay  ; 

And,  though  true  marriage  purpose  keeps 

Of  offspring,  as  the  centre  sleeps 

Within  the  wheel,  transmitting  thence 

Fury  to  the  circumference, 

Love's  self  the  noblest  offspring  is. 

And  sanction  of  the  nuptial  kiss ; 


THE    WEDDING   SERMON.  159 

Lastly,  on  either's  primal  curse, 
Which  help  and  sympathy  reverse 
To  blessings. 

9 

God,  who  may  be  well 
Jealous  of  His  chief  miracle, 
Bids  sleep  the  meddling  soul  of  man, 
Through  the  long  process  of  this  plan, 
Whereby,  from  his  unweeting  side, 
The  Wife's  created,  and  the  Bride, 
That  chance  one  of  her  strange,  sweet  sex 
He  to  his  glad  life  did  annex, 
Grows  more  and  more,  by  day  and  night, 
The  one  in  the  whole  world  opposite 
Of  him,  and  in  her  nature  all 
So  suited  and  reciprocal 
To  his  especial  form  of  sense. 
Affection,  and  intelligence. 
That,  whereas  love  at  first  had  strange 
Relapses  into  lust  of  change. 
It  now  finds  (wondrous  this,  but  tj-ue !) 
The  long-accustom'd  only  new, 
And  the  untried  common ;  and,  whereas 
An  equal  seeming  danger  was 
Of  likeness  lacking  joy  and  force, 
Or  difference  reaching  to  divorce, 
Now  can  the  finish'd  lover  see 


1^0  THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

jVIarvel  of  me  most  far  from  me, 
Whom  without  pride  he  may  admire. 
Without  Narcissus'  doom  desire, 
Serve  without  selfishness,  and  love 
'  Even  as  himself,'  in  sense  above 
Niggard  '  as  much,'  yea,  as  she  is 
The  only  part  of  him  that's  his. 

10 

I  do  not  say  love's  youth  returns  ; 
That  joy  which  so  divinely  yearns  ! 
But  just  esteem  of  present  good 
Shows  all  regret  such  gratitude 
As  if  the  sparrow  in  her  nest, 
Her  woolly  young  beneath  her  breast, 
Should  these  despise,  and  sorrow  for 
Her  five  blue  eggs  that  are  no  more. 
Nor  say  I  the  fruit  has  quite  the  scope 
Of  the  flower's  spiritual  hope. 
Love's  best  is  service,  and  of  this, 
Howe'er  devout,  use  dulls  the  bliss. 
Though  love  is  all  of  earth  that's  dear. 
Its  home,  my  Children,  is  not  here  : 
The  pathos  of  eternity 
Does  in  its  fullest  pleasure  sigh. 

Be  grateful  and  most  glad  thereof. 
Parting,  as  'tis,  is  pain  enough. 
If  love,  by  joy,  has  learu'd  to  give 


THE    WEDDING   SERMON.  161 

Praise  with  the  nature  sensitive, 

At  last,  to  God,  we  then  possess 

The  end  of  mortal  happiness, 

And  henceforth  very  well  may  wait 

The  unbarring  of  the  golden  gate, 

Wherethrough,  already,  faith  can  see 

That  apter  to  each  wish  than  we 

Is  God,  and  curious  to  bless 

Better  than  we  devise  or  guess ; 

Not  without  condescending  craft 

To  disappoint  with  bliss,  and  waft 

( )ur  vessels  frail,  when  worst  He  mocks 

The  heart  with  breakers  and  with  rocks, 

To  happiest  havens.     Tou  have  heard 

Your  bond  death-sentenced  by  His  Word. 

What,  if,  in  heaven,  the  name  be  o'er, 

Because  the  tiling  is  so  much  more  ? 

All  are,  'tis  writ,  as  angels  there, 

ITor  male  nor  female.     Each  a  stair 

In  the  hierarchical  ascent 

Of  active  and  recipient 

Affections,  what  if  all  are  both 

By  turn,  as  they  themselves  betroth 

To  adoring  what  is  next  above. 

Or  serving  what's  below  their  love  ? 

Of  this  we  are  certified,  that  we 
Are  shaped  here  for  eternity, 
So  tliat  a  careless  word  will  make 

F— 122 


162  THE   VICTORIES    OF   LOVE. 

Its  dint  upon  the  form  we  take 
For  ever.     If,  then,  years  have  wrought 
Two  strangers  to  become,  in  thouglit, 
Will,  and  affection,  but  one  man 
For  likeness,  as  none  others  can, 
Without  like  process,  shall  tliis  tree 
The  king  of  all  the  forest,  be, 
Alas,  the  only  one  of  all 
That  shall  not  lie  where  it  doth  fall  ? 
Shall  this  unflagging  flame,  here  nurs'd 
By  everything,  yea,  when  reversed. 
Blazing,  in  fury,  brighter,  wink, 
Flicker,  and  into  darkness  shrink, 
When  all  else  glows,  baleful  or  brave, 
In  the  keen  air  beyond  the  grave  ? 

Beware  ;  for  fiends  in  triumph  laugh 
O'er  him  who  learns  the  truth  by  half  ! 
Beware  ;  for  Grod  will  not  endure 
For  men  to  make  their  hope  more  pure 
Than  His  good  promise,  or  require 
Another  than  the  five-string'd  lyre 
Which  He  has  vow'd  again  to  the  hands 
Devout  of  him  who  understands 
To  tune  it  justly  here  !     Beware 
The  Powers  of  Darkness  and  the  Air, 
Which  lure  to  empty  heights  man's  hope. 
Bepraising  heaven's  ethereal  cope. 
But  covering  with  their  cloudy  cant 


THE    WEDDING   SERMON.  163 

Its  ground  of  solid  adamant, 

That  strengthens  ether  for  the  flight 

Of  angels,  makes  and  measures  height, 

And  in  materiality 

Exceeds  our  Earth's  in  such  degree 

As  all  else  Earth  exceeds  !     Do  I 

Here  utter  aught  too  dark  or  high  ? 

Have  you  not  seen  a  bird's  beak  slay 

Proud  Psyche,  on  a  summer's  day  ? 

Down  fluttering  drop  the  frail  wings  four. 

Missing  the  weight  which  made  them  soar. 

Sj)irit  is  heavy  nature's  wing, 

And  is  not  rightly  anything 

Without  its  burthen,  whereas  this, 

Wingless,  at  least  a  maggot  is, 

And,  wing'd,  is  honour  and  delight 

Increasing  endlessly  with  height. 

II. 
If  unto  any  here  that  chance 
Fell  not,  which  makes  a  month's  romance, 
Remember,  few  wed  whom  they  would. 
And  this,  like  all  Grod's  laws,  is  good ; 
For  nought's  so  sad,  the  whole  world  o'er, 
As  much  love  which  has  once  been  more. 
Glorious  for  light  is  the  earliest  love ; 
But  worldly  things,  in  the  rays  thereof, 
Extend  their  shadows,  every  one 


164  THE   VICTORIES    OF    LOVE. 

False  as  the  imao-e  wliieli  the  sun 
At  noon  or  eve  dwarfs  or  protracts. 
A  perilous  lamp  to  light  men's  acts  ! 
By  Heaven's  kind,  impartial  plan, 
Well-wived  is  he  that's  truly  man 
If  but  the  woman's  womanly, 
As  such  a  man's  is  sure  to  be. 
Joy  of  all  eyes  and  pride  of  life 
Perhaps  she  is  not ;  tlie  likelier  wife  ! 
If  it  be  thus  ;  if  you  have  known, 
(As  who  has  not  ?)  some  heaveuly  one. 
Whom  the  dull  background  of  despair 
Help'd  to  show  forth  supremely  fair  ; 
If  memory,  still  remorseful,  shapes 
Young  Passion  bringing  Eshcol  grapes 
To  travellers  in  the  Wilderness, 
This  truth  will  make  regret  the  less  : 
Mighty  in  love  as  graces  are, 
God's  ordinance  is  mightier  far  ; 
And  he  who  is  but  just  and  kind 
And  patient,  shall  for  guerdon  find. 
Before  long,  that  the  body's  bond 
Is  all  else  utterly  beyond 
In  power  of  love  to  actualise 
The  soul's  bond  which  it  signifies, 
And  even  to  deck  a  wife  with  grace 
External  in  the  form  and  face. 
A  five  years'  wife,  and  not  yet  fair  ? 


THE    WEDDING   SERMON,  165 

Blame  let  the  man,  not  Xatnre,  bear ! 

For,  as  the  sun,  warming  a  bank 

Where  last  year's  grass  droops  gray  and  dank, 

Evokes  the  violet,  bids  disclose 

In  yellow  crowds  the  fresh  primrose, 

And  foxglove  hang  her  flushing  head, 

So  vernal  love,  where  all  seems  dead, 

Makes  beauty  abound. 

Then  was  that  nought, 
That  trance  of  joy  beyond  all  thought, 
The  vision,  in  one,  of  womanhood  ? 
ISTay,  for  all  women  holding  good, 
Should  marriage  such  a  prologue  want, 
'Twere  sordid  and  most  ignorant 
Profanity ;  but,  having  this, 
'Tis  honour  now,  and  future  bliss ; 
For  where  is  he  that,  knowing  the  height 
And  depth  of  ascertain' d  delight, 
Inhumanly  henceforward  lies 
Content  with  mediocrities  ! 


AMELIA,    ETC. 


169 


AMELIA. 

Whene'er  mine  eyes  do  my  Amelia  greet 
It  is  with  sucli  emotion 
As  when,  in  childhood,  turning  a  dim  street, 
I  first  beheld  the  ocean. 

There,  where  the  little,  bright,  surf -breathing  town, 
That  shew'd  me  first  her  beauty  and  the  sea, 
Gathers  its  skirts  against  the  gorse-lit  down 
And  scatters  gardens  o'er  the  southern  lea, 
Abides  this  Maid 

Within  a  kind,  yet  sombre  Mother's  shade, 
Who  of  her  daughter's  graces  seems  almost  afraid. 
Viewing  them  ofttimes  with  a  scared  forecast. 
Caught,  haply,  from  obscure  love-peril  past. 
Howe'er  that  be, 
She  scants  me  of  my  right, 
Is  cunning  careful  evermore  to  balk 
Sweet  separate  talk, 
And  fevers  my  delight 
By  frets,  if,  on  Amelia's  cheek  of  peach, 
I  touch  the  notes  which  music  cannot  reach, 
Bidding  '  Good-night ! ' 

Wherefore  it  came  that,  till  to-day's  dear  date, 
I  curs'd  the  weary  months  which  yet  I  have  to  wait 


170  AMELIA. 

Ere  I  find  heaven,  one-nested  with  my  mate. 

To-day,  the  Mother  gave, 
To  urgent  pleas  and  promise  to  behave 
As  she  were  there,  her  long-besought  consent 
To  trust  Amelia  with  me  to  the  grave 
Where  lay  my  once-betrothed,  Millicent : 
•  For,'  said  she,  hiding  ill  a  moistening  eye, 
'  Though,  Sir,  the  word  sounds  liard, 
God  makes  as  if  He  least  knew  how  to  guard 
The  treasure  He  loves  best,  simplicity.' 

And  there  Amelia  stood,  for  fairness  shewn 
Like  a  young  apple-tree,  in  flush'd  array 
Of  white  and  ruddy  flow'r,  auroral,  gay, 
With  chilly  blue  the  maiden  branch  between ; 
And  yet  to  look  on  her  moved  less  the  mind 
To  say  '  How  beauteous ! '  than  '  How  good  and  kind  ! 

And  so  we  went  alone 
By  walls  o'er  which  the  lilac's  numerous  plume 
Shook  down  perfume  ; 
Trim  plots  close  blown 
With  daisies,  in  conspicuous  myriads  seen, 
Engross'd  each  one 

With  single  ardour  for  her  spouse,  the  sun  ; 
Garths  in  their  glad  array 
Of  white  and  ruddy  branch,  auroral,  gay, 
With  azure  chill  the  maiden  flow'r  between  ; 
Meadows  of  fervid  green, 
With  sometime  sudden  prospect  of  untold 


AMELIA.  171 

Cowslips,  like  chance-found  gold  ; 

And  broadcast  buttercups  at  joyful  gaze, 

Rending  the  air  with  praise, 

Like  the  six-hundred-thousaud-voiced  shout 

Of  Jacob  camp'd  in  Midian  put  to  rout ; 

Then  through  the  Park, 

Where  Spring  to  livelier  gloom 

Quicken'd  the  cedars  dark, 

And.  'gainst  tlie  clear  sky  cold. 

Which  shone  afar 

Crowded  with  sunny  alps  oracular, 

Great  chestnuts  raised  themselyes  abroad  like  cliffs  of 

bloom ; 
And  everywhere, 

Amid  the  ceaseless  rapture  of  the  lark, 
With  wonder  new 

"We  caught  the  solemn  voice  of  single  air, 
'  Cuckoo  ! ' 

And  when  Amelia,  'bolden'd,  saw  and  heard 
How  bravely  sang  the  bird. 
And  all  things  in  God's  bounty  did  rejoice, 
She  who,  lier  Mother  by,  spake  seldom  word. 
Did  her  charm'd  silence  doff, 
And,  to  my  happy  marvel,  her  dear  voice 
Went  as  a  clock  does,  when  the  pendulum's  off. 
Ill  Monarch  of  man's  heart  the  Maiden  who 
Does  not  aspire  to  be  High-Pontiff  too  ! 
So  she  repeated  soft  her  Poet's  line. 


172  AMELIA. 

'  By  grace  divine, 

Not  otherwise,  O  Nature,  are  we  tliine  ! ' 

And  I,  up  tlie  bright  steep  she  led  me,  trod, 

And  the  like  thought  pursued 

With,  '  What  is  gladness  without  gratitude, 

And  where  is  gratitude  without  a  God  ?  ' 

And  of  delight,  the  guerdon  of  His  laAVs, 

She  spake,  in  learned  mood  ; 

And  I,  of  Him  loved  reverently,  as  Cause, 

Her  sweetly,  as  Occasion  of  all  good. 

Nor  were  we  shy. 

For  souls  in  heaven  that  be 

May  talk  of  heaven  without  hypocrisy. 

And  now,  when  we  drew  near 
The  low,  gray  Church,  in  its  sequester'd  dell, 
A  shade  upon  me  fell. 

Dead  Millicent  indeed  had  been  most  sweet. 
But  I  how  little  meet 
To  call  such  graces  in  a  Maiden  mine ! 
A  boy's  proud  passion  free  aifection  blunts  ; 
His  well-meant  flatteries  oft  are  blind  aif ronts , 
And  many  a  tear 

Was  Millicent's  before  I,  manlier,  knew 
That  maidens  shine 
As  diamonds  do, 
Which,  though  most  clear, 
Are  not  to  be  seen  through ; 
And,  if  she  put  her  virgin  self  aside 


AMELIA.  173 

And  sate  her,  crownless,  at  my  couquering  feet, 

It  should  have  bred  in  me  humility,  not  pride. 

Amelia  had  more  luck  than  Millicent, 

Secure  she  smiled  and  warm  from  all  mischance 

Or  from  my  knowledge  or  my  ignorance. 

And  glow'd  content 

With   my — some    might    have    thought   too   much — 

superior  age, 
Which  seem'd  the  gage 
Of  steady  kindness  all  on  her  intent. 
Thus  nought  forbade  us  to  be  fully  blent. 

While,  therefore,  now 
Her  pensive  footstep  stirr'd 
The  darneU'd  garden  of  unheedf  ul  death, 
She  ask'd  what  Millicent  was  like,  and  heard 
Of  eyes  like  her's,  and  honeysuckle  breath, 
And  of  a  wiser  than  a  woman's  brow, 
Yet  fill'd  with  only  woman's  love,  and  how 
An  incidental  greatness  character'd 
Her  unconsider'd  ways. 
But  all  my  praise 

Amelia  thought  too  slight  for  Millicent 
And  on  my  lovelier-freighted  arm  she  leant, 
For  more  attent ; 
And  the  tea-rose  I  gave, 

To  deck  her  breast,  she  dropp'd  upon  the  grave. 
*  And  this  was  her's,'  said  I,  decoring  with  a  band 
Of  mildest  pearls  Amelia's  milder  hand. 


174  AMELIA. 

*  Nay,  I  will  wear  it  for  her  sake/  she  said  : 
For  dear  to  maidens  are  their  rivals  dead. 

And  so, 
She  seated  on  the  black  yew's  tortured  root. 
I  on  the  carpet  of  sere  shreds  below, 
And  nigh  the  little  mound  where  lay  that  other, 
I  kiss'd  her  lips  three  times  without  dispute, 
And,  with  bold  worship  suddenly  ag'low, 
I  lifted  to  my  lips  a  sandall'd  foot, 
And  kiss'd  it  three  times  thrice  without  dispute. 
Upon  my  head  her  fingers  fell  like  snow, 
Her  lamb-like  hands  about  my  neck  she  wreathed. 
Her  arms  like  slumber  o'er  my  shoulders  crept, 
And  with  her  bosom,  whence  the  azalea  breathed. 
She  did  my  face  full  favourably  smother., 
To  hide  the  heaving  secret  that  she  wept ! 

Now  would  I  keep  my  promise  to  her  Mother ; 
Now  I  arose,  and  raised  her  to  her  feet. 
My  best  Amelia,  fresh-born  from  a  kiss. 
Moth-like,  full-blown  in  birthdew  shuddering  sweet, 
With  great,  kind  eyes,  in  whose  brown  shade 
Bright  Venus  and  her  Baby  play'd ! 

At  inmost  heart  well  pleased  with  one  another, 
What  time  the  slant  sun  low 
Through  the  j)lough'd  field  does   each   clod  sharply 

shew. 
And  softly  fills 
With  shade  the  dimples  of  our  homeward  hills, 


AMELIA.  175 

With  little  said. 

We  left  the  'wilder'd  garden  of  the  dead, 

And  gain'd  the  gorse-lit  shoulder  of  the  down 

That  keeps  the  north-wind  from  the  nestling  town. 

And  caught,  once  more,  the  vision  of  the  wave. 

Where,  on  the  horizon's  dip. 

A  many-sailed  ship 

Pursued  alone  her  distant  purpose  grave ; 

And,  by  steep  steps  rock-hewn,  to  the  dim  street 

I  led  her  sacred  feet ; 

And  so  the  Daughter  gave, 

Soft,  moth-like,  sweet, 

Showy  as  damask-rose  and  shy  as  musk, 

Back  to  her  Mother,  anxious  in  the  dusk. 

And  now  '  Good-night  1 ' 

Me  shall  the  phantom  months  no  more  affright. 

For  heaven's  gates  to  open  well  waits  he 

Who  keeps  himself  the  key. 


176 


THE  DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW. 

Perchance  she  droops  within  the  hollow  gulf 

Which  the  great  wave  of  coming  pleasure  draws, 

Not  guessing  ihe  glad  cause  ! 

Ye  Clouds  that  on  your  endless  journey  go, 

Te  Winds  that  westward  flow. 

Thou  heaving  Sea 

That  heav'st  'twixt  her  and  me. 

Tell  her  I  come  ; 

Then  only  sigh  your  pleasure,  and  be  dumb ; 

For  the  sweet  secret  of  our  either  self 

We  know. 

TeU  her  I  come, 

And  let  her  heart  be  still'd. 

One  day's  controlled  hope,  and  then  one  more. 

And  on  the  third  our  lives  shall  be  f  ulfill'd ! 

Yet  all  has  been  before  : 

Palm  placed  in  palm,  twin  smiles,  and  words  astray. 

What  other  should  we  say? 

But  shall  I  not,  with  ne'er  a  sign,  perceive. 

Whilst  her  sweet  hands  I  hold, 

The  myriad  threads  and  meshes  manifold 

Which  Love  shall  round  her  weave  : 


THE    DAY   AFTER   TO-MORROW.  177 

The  pulse  in  that  vein  making  alien  pause 

And  varying  beats  from  this  ; 

Down  each  long  finger  felt,  a  differing  strand 

Of  silvery  welcome  bland  ; 

And  in  her  breezy  palm 

And  silken  wrist, 

Beneath  the  touch  of  my  like  numerous  bliss 

Complexly  kiss'd, 

A  diverse  and  distinguishable  calm  ? 

What  should  we  say ! 

It  all  has  been  before ; 

And  yet  our  lives  shall  now  be  first  fulfill'd. 

And  into  their  summ'd  sweetness  fall  distill'd 

One  sweet  drop  more ; 

One  sweet  drop  more,  in  absolute  increase 

Of  unrelapsing  peace. 

O,  heaving  Sea, 
That  heav'st  as  if  for  bliss  of  her  and  me, 
And  separatest  not  dear  heart  from  heart, 
Though  each  'gainst  other  beats  too  far  apart, 
For  yet  awhile 

Let  it  not  seem  that  I  behold  her  smile. 
0,  weary  Love,  0,  folded  to  her  breast, 
Love  in  each  moment  years  and  y^ars  of  rest, 
Be  calm,  as  being  not. 
Te  oceans  of  intolerable  delight, 
The  blazing  photosphere  of  central  Night, 
Be  ye  forgot. 


178  THE    DAY    AFTER   TO-MORROW. 

Terror,  thou  swartJiy  Groom  of  Bride-bliss  coy, 

Let  me  not  see  thee  toy. 

0,  Death,  too  tardy  with  thy  hope  intense 

Of  kisses  close  beyond  conceit  of  sense ; 

O,  Life,  too  liberal,  while  to  take  her  hand 

Is  more  of  hope  than  heart  can  understand ; 

Perturb  my  golden  patience  not  with  joy, 

Nor,  through  a  wish,  profane 

The  peace  that  should  pertain 

To  him  who  does  by  her  attraction  move. 

Has  all  not  been  before  ? 

One  day's  controlled  hope,  and  one  again. 

And  then  the  third,  and  ye  shall  have  the  rein, 

O  Life,  Death,  Terror,  Love  ! 

But  soon  let  your  unrestful  rapture  cease, 

Ye  flaming  Ethers  thin, 

Condensing  till  the  abiding  sweetness  win 

One  sweet  drop  more  ; 

One  sweet  drop  more  in  the  measureless  increase 

Of  honied  peace. 


179 


THE    AZALEA.      " 

There,  where  the  sun  shines  first 

Against  our  room, 

She  train'd  the  gold  Azalea,  whose  perfume 

She,  Spring-like,  from  her  breathing  grace  dispersed. 

Last  night  the  delicate  crests  of  saffron  bloom, 

For  that  their  dainty  likeness  watch'd  and  uurst, 

Were  jnst  at  point  to  burst. 

At  dawn  I  dream'd,  O  God,  that  she  was  dead. 

And  groan'd  aloud  upon  my  wretched  bed, 

And  waked,  ah,  God,  and  did  not  waken  her, 

But  lay,  with  eyes  still  closed, 

Perfectly  bless'd  in  the  delicious  sphere 

By  which  I  knew  so  well  that  she  was  near, 

M.J  heart  to  speechless  thankfulness  composed. 

Till  'gan  to  stir 

A  dizzy  somewhat  in  my  troubled  head — 

tt  was  the  azalea's  breath,  and  she  was  dead  ! 

The  warm  night  had  the  lingering  buds  disclosed, 

And  I  had  fall'n  asleej)  with  to  my  breast 

A  chance-found  letter  press'd 

In  which  she  said, 

'  So,  till  to-morrow  eve,  my  Own,  adieu ! 

Parting's  well-paid  with  soon  again  to  meet, 

Soon  in  your  arms  to  feel  so  small  and  sweet. 

Sweet  to  myself  that  am  so  sweet  to  you ! ' 


180 


DEPARTURE. 

It  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways ! 

Do  you,  that  have  nought  other  to  lament, 

N'ever,  my  Love,  repent 

Of  how,  that  July  afternoon, 

Y"ou  went, 

With  sudden,  unintelligible  phrase, 

And  frighten'd  eye, 

Upon  your  journey  of  so  many  days. 

Without  a  single  kiss,  or  a  good-bye  F 

I  knew,  indeed,  that  you  were  parting  soon ; 

And  so  we  sate,  within  the  low  sun's  rays, 

You  whispering  to  me,  for  your  voice  was  weak, 

Your  harrowing  praise. 

Well,  it  was  well. 

To  hear  you  such  things  speak. 

And  I  could  tell 

What  made  your  eyes  a  growing  gloom  of  love. 

As  a  warm  South-wind  sombres  a  March  grove. 

And  it  was  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways 

To  turn  your  talk  on  daily  things,  my  Dear, 

Lifting  the  luminous,  pathetic  lash 

To  let  the  laughter  flash, 


DEPARTURE.  IPt 

Whilst  I  drew  near, 

Because  you  spoke  so  low  that  I  could  scarcely 

hear. 
But  all  at  ouce  to  leave  me  at  the  last, 
More  at  the  wonder  than  the  loss  aghast, 
With  huddled,  unintelligible  phrase. 
And  frighteu'd  eye, 
And  go  your  journey  of  all  days 
Witli  not  one  kiss,  or  a  good-bye, 
And  the  only  loveless  look  the  look  with  which 

you  pass'd  : 
'Twas  all  unlike  your  great  and  gracious  ways. 


182 


THE    TOYS. 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 

With  hard  words  and  mikiss'd, 

His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep. 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 

With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own  ; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with 

careful  art, 
To  comfort  liis  sad  heart. 


THE   TOYS.  183 

So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 

To  God,  I  wept,  and  said : 

Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 

Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

We  made  our  joys. 

How  weakly  understood, 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay 

Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

*  I  will  be  sorrv  for  their  childishness.' 


184 


'IF  I  WERE  DEAD.' 

*  If  I  were  dead,  you'd  sometimes  say,  Poor  Child ! ' 

The  dear  lips  quiver'd  as  they  spake, 

And  the  tears  brake 

From  eyes  which,  not  to  grieve  me,  brightly  smiled. 

Poor  Child,  poor  Child ! 

I  seem  to  hear  your  laugh,  your  talk,  your  song. 

It  is  not  true  that  Love  will  do  no  wrong. 

Poor  Child  ! 

And  did  you  think,  when  you  so  cried  and  smiled, 

How  I,  in  lonely  nights,  should  lie  awake. 

And  of  those  words  your  full  avengers  make  ? 

Poor  Child,  poor  Child ! 

And  now,  unless  it  be 

That  sweet  amends  thrice  told  are  come  to  thee, 

O  God,  have  Thou  no  mercy  upon  me  ! 

Poor  Child ! 


185 


A  FAREWELL. 

With  all  my  will,  but  much  against  my  heart, 

We  two  now  part. 

My  Yery  Dear, 

Our  solaee  is,  the  sad  road  lies  so  clear. 

It  needs  no  art, 

With  faint,  averted  feet 

And  many  a  tear. 

In  our  opposed  paths  to  persevere. 

Go  thou  to  East,  I  West. 

We  will  not  say 

There's  any  hope,  it  is  so  far  away. 

But,  O,  my  Best, 

When  the  one  darling  of  our  widowhead, 

The  nursling  Grief, 

Is  dead, 

And  no  dews  blur  our  eyes 

To  see  the  peach-bloom  come  in  evening  skies, 

Perchance  we  may. 

Where  now  this  night  is  day, 

And  even  through  faith  of  still  averted  feet, 

Making  full  circle  of  our  banishment, 

Amazed  meet ; 

The  bitter  journey  to  the  bourne  so  sweet 

Seasoning  the  termless  feast  of  our  content 

With  tears  of  recognition  never  dry. 


186 


SPONSA  DEI. 

What  is  this  Maiden  fair, 

The  laughing  of  whose  eye 

Is  in  man's  heart  renew'd  virginity ; 

Who  yet  sick  longing  breeds 

For  marriage  which  exceeds 

The  inventive  guess  of  Love  to  satisfy 

With  hope  of  utter  binding,  and  of  loosing  endless 

dear  despair  ? 
What  gleams  about  her  shine, 
More  transient  than  delight  and  more  divine  ! 
If  she  does  something  but  a  little  sweet, 
As  gaze  towards  the  glass  to  set  her  hair, 
See  how  his  soul  falls  humbled  at  her  feet ! 
Her  gentle  step,  to  go  or  come, 
Gains  her  more  merit  than  a  martyrdom  ; 
And,  if  she  dance,  it  doth  such  grace  confer 
As  opes  the  heaven  of  heavens  to  more  than  her, 
And  makes  a  rival  of  her  worshipper. 
To  die  unknown  for  her  were  little  cost ! 
So  is  she  without  guile, 
Her  mere  refused  smile 
Makes  up  the  sum  of  that  which  may  be  lost ! 


SPONSA   DEI.  187 

Who  is  this  Fair 

Whom  each  hath  seen, 

The  darkest  once  in  this  bewailed  dell, 

Be  he  not  destin'd  for  the  glooms  of  hell  ? 

Whom  each  hath  seen 

Ajid  known,  with  sharp  remorse  and  sweet,  as  Queen 

And  tear-glad  Mistress  of  his  hopes  of  bliss, 

Too  fair  for  man  to  kiss  ? 

Who  is  this  only  happy  She, 

Whom,  by  a -frantic  flight  of  courtesy, 

Born  of  despair 

Of  better  lodging  for  his  Spirit  fair, 

He  adores  as  Margaret,  Maude,  or  Cecily  ? 

And  what  this  sigh, 

That  each  one  heaves  for  Earth's  last  lowliheail 

And  the  Heaven  high 

Ineffably  lock'd  in  dateless  bridal-bed  ? 

Are  all,  then,  mad,  or  is  it  prophecy  p 

'  Sons  now  we  are  of  God,'  as  we  have  heard, 

'  But  what  we  shall  be  hath  not  yet  appear'd/ 

O,  Hoart,  remember  thee, 

That  Man  is  none, 

Save  One. 

What  if  this  Lady  be  thy  Soul,  and  He 

Who  claims  to  enjoy  her  sacred  beauty  be, 

bTot  thou,  but  God  ;  and  thy  sick  fire 

A  female  vanity, 

Such  as  a  Bride,  viewing  her  mirror'd  charms, 


188  SPONSA   DEI. 

jt'eels  when  she  sighs,  '  All  these  are  for  his  arms  ! ' 

A  reflex  heat 

Flash'd  on  thy  cheek  from  His  immense  desire, 

Which  waits  to  crown,  beyond  thy  brain's  conceit, 

Thy  nameless,  secret,  hopeless  longing-  sweet, 

Not  by-and-by,  but  now. 

Unless  deny  Him  then  ! 


I8y 


THE  ROSY  BOSOM'D  HOURS. 

A  FLOEIN  to  tlie  willing  Guard 

Secured,  for  half  the  way, 
(He  lock'd  us  in,  all,  lucky-starr'd,) 

A  curtain'd,  front  coupe. 
Tlie  sparkling  sun  of  August  slione ; 

The  wind  was  in  the  West ; 
Your  gown  and  all  that  you  had  on 

"Was  what  became  you  best ; 
And  we  were  in  that  seldom  mood 

When  soul  with  soul  agrees, 
Mingling,  like  flood  with  equal  flood, 

In  agitated  ease. 
Far  round,  each  blade  of  harvest  bare 

Its  little  load  of  bread ; 
Each  furlong  of  that  journey  fair 
.   With  separate  sweetness  sped. 
Tlie  calm  of  use  was  coming  o'er 

The  wonder  of  onr  wealth, 
And  now,  maybe,  'twas  not  much  more 

Than  Eden's  common  health. 
We  paced  the  sunny  platform,  while 

The  train  at  Havant  changed  : 


190  THE   HOSY    BOSOM'D   HOURS. 

What  made  the  people  kindly  smile, 

Or  stare  with  looks  estranged  r 
Too  radiant  for  a  wife  you  seem'd, 

Serener  than  a  bride  ; 
Me  happiest  born  of  men  I  deem'd. 

And  show'd  perchance  my  pride. 
I  loved  that  girl,  so  gaunt  and  tall, 

Who  whispered  loud,  '  Sweet  Thing  ! ' 
Scanning  your  figure,  slight  yet  all 

Round  as  your  own  gold  ring. 
At  Salisbury  you  stray'd  alone 

Within  the  sliafted  glooms, 
Whilst  I  was  by  the  Yerger  shown 

The  brasses  and  the  tombs. 
At  tea  we  talk'd  of  matters  deep, 

Of  joy  that  ncA^er  dies ; 
We  laugh'd,  till  love  was  mix'd  with  sleep 

Within  your  great  sweet  eyes. 
The  next  day,  sweet  with  luck  no  less 

And  sense  of  sweetness  past, 
The  full  tide  of  our  happiness 

Rose  higher  than  the  last. 
At  Dawlish,  'mid  the  jjools  of  brine, 

Tou  stept  from  rock  to  rock, 
One  hand  quick  tightening  upon  mine, 

One  holding  up  your  frock. 
On  starfish  and  on  weeds  alone 

Tou  seem'd  intent  to  be  : 


THE    ROSY    BOSOM'd   HOURS.  191 

Flasli'd  those  great  gleams  of  hope  unknown 

From  you,  or  from  the  sea  ? 
Ne'er  came  before,  ah,  when  again 

Shall  come  two  days  like  these : 
Such  quick  delight  within  the  brain, 

Within  the  heart  such  peace  ? 
I  thought,  indeed,  by  magic  chance, 

A  third  from  Heaven  to  win, 
But  as,  at  dusk,  we  reach'd  Penzance, 

A  drizzling  rain  set  in. 


192 


EROS. 

Bright  thro'  the  valley  gallops  the  brooklet; 

Over  the  welkin  travels  the  cloud  ; 
Touch'd  by  the  zephyr,  dances  the  harebell ; 

Cuckoo  sits  somewhere,  singing  so  loud ; 
Two  little  children,  seeing  and  hearing. 

Hand  in  hand  wander,  shout,  laugh,  and  sing 
Lo,  in  their  bosoms,  wild  with  the  marvel. 

Love,  like  the  crocus,  is  come  ere  the  Spring. 
Young  men  and  women,  noble  and  tender. 

Team  for  each  other,  faith  truly  plight, 
Promise  to  cherish,  comfort  and  honour ; 

Yow  that  makes  duty  one  with  delight. 
Oh,  but  the  glory,  found  in  no  story, 

Radiance  of  Eden  unquench'd  by  the  Fall ; 
Few  may  remember,  none  may  reveal  it. 

This  the  first  first-love,  the  first  love  of  all ! 


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